Evighet
by norxcoffee
Summary: They have been together from the beginning. And no doubt it will end that way too. The history of the Nordics, from the Viking times to present day, in the form of a story.
1. Chapter 1

1.

The land was all he had ever known. The land, his land, rushing rivers and towering mountains, forests of pine and dew, a vibrant rush of green shot through with ice-white. He felt it in every rock and leaf- home. There were people as well, the people who had first taken him in and given him his name. _Sverige_ , he told them. But they shook their heads and laughed. _Sverige_ was not a name, they said. Sverige was this, these fields and hills he saw in front of him. So they called him something else, something he liked to forget. But that was before. The children of the village grew up and moved away. Their mothers and fathers returned to the dirt, and he felt each and every death like it was his own. He was a freak. An outcast. The child who never aged. And so he ran, from his false friends, back to the forests where he had first come to be.

In the village they gave him food, bread and meat. But now there was no need for food. The trees filled him with life and air, carried him laughing between their branches, and the earth beneath his feet made him feel fuller than ever. Here, _Sverige_ meant something else. It was not only his name, but this place's name; a name they shared. He knew he was different. Yet he and the land were one and the same.

One day, the forest came to a sudden end. A glistening mass of blue spread out before his eyes, perfectly flat...and yet it moved, swaying up and down in a rhythm he could not find. He found himself afraid- an inhuman fear of the unknown. For this was not Sverige. It was something else, a wild, untamed thing that he sensed no bond with. _Not mine_. The words appeared in his head, unbidden. He opened his mouth, as he had seen the people of the village do to communicate.

'Not mine.' It was like nothing he had ever felt before; like the most wonderful rush of _being_. A tightness at the back of his throat he had not known was there released suddenly. More words flooded forward, and he longed to say them all, to yell them to his skies and his stars.

'Sverige. _Sverige_. My land. My forest-'

Another voice cut him off. Hundreds of years from now, after countless wars and battles and deaths, this would still be the moment that frightened him most.

'You're like me.'

The speaker was a young boy, like him. His blond hair was wild and stood up in all directions, as though he had just crawled through a thicket of brambles. His eyes were blue- the same colour as the shining waves that were so strangely frightening. And they saw. They were not innocent and dull like those of the village children. They shone with clarity, understanding.

'Yes. I am like you. _Sverige_.'

The other boy frowned, mouthing the unfamiliar word.

'Sverige? Yes- you are.' He seemed to _know_ , just as Sverige himself had known. And when he said his own name- whispered 'Danmark' with the same meaning that _Sverige_ held- they both knew this was something different.

'What is this?' said Sverige, waving a hand at the blue waves. His new companion smiled.

'The sea, my people call it.'

'And it is yours?' _Yours_ meant- do you feel it too? The irresistible pull to something that is truly your own.

'Yes. It is mine. And these forests are yours.'

They sat in silence for a while longer, staring at sea and sky. Sverige felt that pull all around him- to the trees, the pine needles scattered everywhere- to Danmark. A new word presented itself in his mind.

'Bror,' he said. It felt right somehow.

'Bror.' They looked at each other; nodded, smiled. And turned back to gaze upon the land that was theirs.

2.

'Sve,' he hissed, twisting round to face his brother. 'Sve, look.'

'My name's not Sve.' came the disgruntled reply from across the campfire. They were staying with a strange band of warriors, the ones who had given him his name, and his new friend was still distrustful of their great axes and braided hair. The leader was the wildest: a tall, broken-nosed man known only as Harald. He came from across the sea- had sailed there in a long painted ship- and referred to his homeland as Kongeriget Denmark.

'I'm-' he had blurted out at Harald's words, before a rough hand clapped across his mouth.

'I know what you are, boy. But the others cannot understand. So you must not tell them. Promise?' He made his promise in mutters and mumbles from behind the hand.

'But how do you know?' he asked when it was taken away. 'How are you different?'

'I am their-' The man hesitated then, looking for the right word. ' _King_. I am the king. Your king.' And when he said _your_ , he did not mean it as a ruler. He meant it in a way that could not be described, a way that was the bond between the two of them and their land, the same connection that Sweden had described when he was first found. So Denmark did as he was told, and called himself by his strange human name.

'What is it? I'm trying to sleep.' Sweden's voice snapped him out of his reverie.

'Over there! That light!' He pointed up at the woods, from which a soft, greenish glow emitted. Sweden came up at his shoulder, rubbing his eyes between yawns. No sooner had he appeared then Denmark seized his hand, pulling him up and into the forest.

It was a lot darker there, amongst the pines and birches.

'Why are we going so slowly?' said Sweden. He sounded irritable, just as most people sounded irritable when speaking to Denmark.

'We're hunters,' replied his brother, dropping his voice to a hush. 'We have to sneak up on the light.' He felt as though he had covered his fears quite nicely, if Sweden's affirmative grunt was anything to go by. Silently (or perhaps not so) they crept through the woods, edging closer and closer to the green orb. It floated some way off the ground, casting shadows that resembled monsters and demons as long as their imaginations were in control.

'Sve,' he whispered at last. 'Maybe we should go-' A loud crack cut off his words, sending them both sprawling to the ground in terrified reflex. Denmark took the opportunity to go wild, yelling and waving his tiny dagger for all he was worth.

'Come out, whoever you are! I have a sword!'

'And I have _this_.' The reply was spoken by an unfamiliar voice- a smooth, distinctly cold voice.

'Den, you idiot,' said Sweden, creating a new nickname whilst his brother was distracted. 'Get back here now.'

The green light paled and dimmed, until they could both see a small hand beneath it. Then an arm was visible, then the other...a pair of legs, a head, a face...

'Who are you? Actually, _what_ are you?' Sweden was tempted to slap Denmark for his stupidity, but refrained so as not to make a bad impression on the newcomer.

'I am Norge. Norway.' Norway's hair was bone-white-blond, his eyes deep and blue as the northern sky.

'Sve, he's like us,' breathed Denmark, awed. His face was slack with wonder- the most mesmerised Sweden had ever seen him.

'I know.' He put out a hand to Norway, and felt it- the pull of a brother. A friend.

3.

Norway had been with them for around a month when they left Sweden. He was shy, and kept to himself more often than not, preferring to practise his strange magic tricks alone in the woods. Denmark remained as entranced as he had been that first day, to the point where Sweden found himself missing his brother's boisterous presence.

'Come on, Den,' he would say. 'Leave Nor alone. He'll send one of his demons after you, or something.' It had been quite a shock when Norway assured him coolly that he could in fact see demons, and was not afraid to use them. The day they were to leave, Norway stood at the prow of the longship, gazing out at the ever-rocking sea. Denmark was several paces behind him, but that distance might have been nothing for the look of complete devotion seared across his face, focused on Norway's pale head. A strange sensation was building up inside of Sweden. His brother had grown taller these past few weeks, with the strength to match and a fiery courage that was prone to idiocy. He held the power in their little trio, it was plain to see. Not even Norway's blank stares could deter him from anything, and he was the one who decided what they should do and when. _But Harald is going to make us great. He promised._

Sweden's eyes were fixed on the shore as the boat moved away, wanting to preserve this image of his home for as long as possible. With every oarstroke, he felt his power depleting. The sea was not his home; it was wild and untamed, just like Denmark, and he could not understand it, just as he could not understand the world of strange magics that Norway hid himself in. A harsh laugh scattered his thoughts. He looked up, seeing Harald and Denmark thrashing at each other with a pair of huge, curved battleaxes. Their eyes were alight with a terrifying joy, a pleasure in fighting that Sweden had never felt. Harald's warriors had taught him the ways of the sword, making him slash and cut and parry until every movement was as natural as breathing. He did not not enjoy it; on the contrary, it all seemed rather pointless, with him being almost half the size of some of the men. Watching Denmark now, Sweden could tell that he had abandoned all training and conscious thought. His actions became fuelled by brutality, a desire to win- and that was what set them apart. _I could never defeat a warrior better than me, not even with luck. He does not consider losing, so he always wins._

'Well fought.' Den offered Harald a hand, pulling him up from the ship's deck. Sweden was shocked to note that he came nearly to his shoulder, even though at the start of the month he and his brother had been the same height.

'What's the matter, Sve?' A hand mussed his hair, perhaps more roughly than intended. 'You always look so dour. Like a living raincloud.' Denmark laughed, proud of his simile, and for the first time since their meeting, Sweden was tempted to strike him. _I can be strong too._ He strode to the other end of the boat. Breathing in the cold sea air helped. One day, he knew his country would be great. He would hear the cry of 'Kungariket Sverige' from the throats of ten thousand warriors, _Swedish_ warriors. Sweden smiled at the thought. Although he was leaving his home now, he knew he would return. Stronger, and better.

But that night feelings of guilt began to creep up on him. There was no sound of oars splashing to muffle his thoughts, no howling winds to shield his mind. _We could build an empire together. Norway, Denmark and Sweden_. A perfect alliance. None of that was achievable without him. He looked over to the other side of the boat, where his brothers slept. Denmark was sprawled across his bench, one arm flung out and the other curled behind his head. Norway lay more sedately, small and still beneath his furred cloak. But he too had one arm outstretched. They had fallen asleep holding hands- Denmark and Norway, as unlike one another as fire and water. A chill crept over Sweden. Suddenly being alone did not seem so good. He needed his brothers, even if they needed each other more than they needed him. Sweden rolled over and willed for sleep to come. Something warm, wet and entirely unwelcome streamed from each eye. He ignored it, tried to push down the pain. And at last fell into a fitful slumber, aboard the ship that carried him, albeit unknowingly, to a land ripe for plunder and conquer- a land called England.

4.

Norway had always thought that he would be alone. No one else could see his spirits, no one believed in his faeries, and they were terrified of his magic. And for a while, that had not mattered. He lived, perfectly happy, in the forests of his home, with no desire to leave and seek new lands. Sometimes a human might approach; man, woman or child- all left soon enough, not wanting to confront the small, pale boy with centuries-deep eyes. He never felt lonely. Not when he had the land, and his magic. But the day came when everything changed- when two other boys stumbled across him practicing his spells, in the dead of night when they should have been asleep. Norway did not need magic to tell that they were like him. They were bound by something ancient and powerful to their people, a tie that in turn drew them to each other. So he had gone with them, much against his better judgement.

This new life unsettled Norway somewhat. He could sit for hours in silence beside Sweden, never feeling uncomfortable, both of them expressing something words could not. A friend- that was what Sweden was. And Denmark...he was loud, boisterous, always smiling- that _damned_ smile- and never left Norway alone. Even Sweden knew not to interfere with Norway's magics. But Denmark pestered him relentlessly, until he found himself wishing that he could show the other his spirits, if only it would make him go away. He _wanted_ to share that world of spellcasting and mystery with Denmark, wanted to take him to the highest peaks of his land and watch the strange lights in the sky there. Denmark was a warrior, a fierce ball of energy, brave and brash and idiotic- everything Norway looked down upon, yet somehow combined to create a person he never thought he would end up liking. But that was what had happened.

'Land.' he said. Sweden beside him nodded, eyes fixed on the strip of green in the distance. The one who called himself king, Harald, had been particularly ambiguous about their destination, preferring to say that it was a place that would bring them greatness. Now it seemed they had arrived. A small rowing boat was let down. Suddenly Norway felt panic rising within him; this was not a place he could understand, a place where the bond of _nation_ went by another name.

'Sve, where are we?' he said, forgetting in his worry to always call him Sweden, never the stupid nickname that Denmark used. Sweden only shook his head. A voice called his name.

'Nor, come on!' He looked down to see Denmark sat in the little boat, Harald and axe in tow as ever. Something inside of Norway twisted uncomfortably. Then he slipped over the side of the longboat and joined the others.

Arthur watched the sunrise through pinched, tired eyes. It was raining, as ever, and his blond hair was plastered to his forehead. But that was the least of his worries. On the horizon he glimpsed sails, painted bold red and white. Another attack; that was the third this month. The Vikings would come in their strange low ships, murder two dozen or so villagers, and if they were lucky, a couple might manage to scale the town's stout stone walls. They left with their bloodlust sated and pockets full of gold- that Arthur could tolerate. As long as his country remained free, he did not complain. The rule of the Romans was still horribly fresh in his mind. And yet, something was different this time. He sensed a strange pull from across the waters, a pull not unlike that between him and his brothers, pagan Allistor and quiet Dylan. This pull did not mean well. It carried strength, fury, the weight of a growing power...Arthur yanked up the hood of his cloak, and wheeled round, shouting for the guardsmen to ready themselves.

The coat of mail came first. It was followed by worn leather armour, rags stuffed between for extra padding, then a dark green tunic over everything. That was the extent of Arthur's protection for this battle. He slung a dented metal cap over his head, and picked up his sword. _Let them come. We will never fall._ This might be a mere raid; it might be something more. Harald Bluetooth was rumoured to be sailing with the party this time, a warrior feared even here in England. He had his own kingdom- a small thing yet, but he could be looking for more land to add. Arthur's heart hardened. _I must not fail._ He strode outside and joined his fighters at the battlements. They greeted him with a series of respectful nods. Arthur may have been small, but he had proved himself in war, defending against the attacks of his brother Allistor's barbaric people.

They did not have to wait long. The Vikings wasted no time, leaping ashore and running into the first houses they saw. Sometimes the thatched roof would set alight, and a man would run out, hands filled with gold. Other times one of the English soldiers stationed there stepped forward, covered in the blood of his dead foeman.

'Archers.' The sound of bowstrings tightening filled the air. 'Nock. Draw. Loose.' Volley after volley of arrows rained down upon the attackers. Some had thought to bring shields, and crouched safe behind them; others resembled oversized geese after a while. Arthur found his eye caught by a band of fighters at the western shore. One wore a cloak dyed brazen red, and handled his huge battleaxe with surprising grace. He was the tallest of the three; his two companions were smaller, almost child-sized. But they too aquitted themselves well, bringing down every Englishman that approached. And then Arthur understood. _This_ was why he had felt the pull of another nation, why he had greeted the Viking boats with far more trepidation than usual.

'The wall is yours,' he told his second-in-command, a grizzled bear of a man who was the veteran of a hundred battles. 'Be sure that you hold it. I'm going down there.' Before he had a chance to reply, Arthur was sprinting down the steps, sword brandished in front of him. Voices called his name, but he ignored them utterly.

He cut down every man before him, made fiendish by the need to know these others, to take their land and make them submit to England. Once, the tides of battle brought Arthur face to face with Harald Bluetooth. It was for a mere second, but that marked his only moment of fear in the whole day.

'Arthur!' He spun about, to see one of his own men in the doorway of a house. 'What are you-' A feathered shaft sprouted from his eye. He crumpled to the floor, dead.

'Who-' Arthur turned yet again, to see the shortest of the three nation-warriors behind him. He was stony-faced and deep-eyed, with a small bow in one hand. The other hand was held aloft, and in it sparks swirled-

'Wait!' yelled Arthur. 'I'm like you-' The sparks struck him in the stomach, making him double at the waist and cough. But through the pain, his mind whirled. His greatest secret, the thing that no one knew, whilst several people knew he was a nation...magic. Spirits and faeries, demons that were kind only to him, powers and spells he had to keep hidden. Now there was someone to share all that with. Someone who was an enemy.

'Nor!' a loud voice called out. It belonged to the tall one with the red cloak, who was in the middle of killing a gate sentry. He spoke some more words in a strange language, now hacking at the gate with his axe.

'What's he saying?' demanded Arthur. 'Nor' turned back to him with an expression of such blankness, that Arthur had never felt more insignificant. He shook his pale head slightly, then spoke.

'I am Norway.' Norway's voice was quiet and accented. 'We have taken your land. You must stay here. Sweden-' He called out over his shoulder in that same language, then ran off to join his tall friend. Sweden was not so tall, and less ethereal, but Arthur was intimidated the most by him. _Brothers. They are brothers._ As he sat there, waiting at the point of Sweden's sword whilst wild foreigners took his homeland, Arthur felt an inexplicable envy. He was alone: these three helped each other. For the first time since the Romans, he feared that he would soon lose his freedom.

5.

Several decades had passed since that momentous day, when England knelt before them in the hall of his leaders and ceded his stronghold. They had fought and plundered, killed and stolen, grown strong under the leadership of Harald Bluetooth. 'The best years' Denmark would come to call them, when he looked back upon his long and bloody history. Sweden and Norway were less inclined to agree. Their own kings were weaker, preferring to keep to their remote castles and not meddle in foreign affairs, which left them vulnerable to attack. It was quite obvious who held the power. The day Harald died, his only regret not conquering England, Sweden thought _now? Should I run now?_ But then he saw Denmark's face, wretched with grief- and knew he could not leave his brother just yet.

'England!' Denmark's jubilant voice echoed around the room. He jabbed a finger onto the map, pointing at the stretch of sea separating the two countries.

'You're sure?' said Norway. 'They know to expect us now. It won't be an easy battle.'

'Of course I'm sure! The king has asked us to prepare a plan of attack, and he wants it ready by tomorrow.' The king was never spoken of in tones less than reverent, at least where Denmark was concerned. His name was Cnut, and he was a grandson of Harald Bluetooth's, which automatically granted him some form of respect. But Sweden had to agree with that sentiment. Cnut was cunning where Harald had simply been bold, with a blend of youth and genuine skill that made him a formidable foe on the battlefield.

'I suggest we land here,' he said, pointing on the map at that same fishing village they had once wrested from England. 'Then we can come through _here_ -' His finger swept northwards- '-and attack these two towns, which leaves us free to besiege London.' Norway frowned.

'We'll need time to regain our strength before going to London. And they might send out sea power of their own.'

'Then we'll fight them at sea!' cut in Denmark. Norway looked ready to dismiss him entirely, but he kept talking. 'No one builds better boats than us. They know that. All we have to do is take the supplies from those two towns, and wait. They can't stay behind their walls forever.'

There was a sudden silence.

'He's right.' muttered Sweden after a moment. Norway nodded reluctantly.

'Perhaps you do have a brain in there after all.' he said. Denmark's face split into a wide smile, clearly not having enough brain to realise it wasn't a compliment.

'Thanks, Nor!' Sweden cleared his throat, and gestured back at the map.

'Taking London guarantees us the south, but we still have the northerners to deal with. They're like a people of their own.' Denmark's grin widened.

'Don't worry about that, little brother. I've got it sorted.' He stabbed his finger into the small peninsula that was Denmark, moving it to the upper half of England. 'The king has asked me to take a fleet up there, landing at the nearby monastery. You and Nor provide the distraction down south, whilst I secure us the north. We'll conquer England in no time!' Sweden forgot his momentary irritation, and allowed himself to be swept away on the glory of the words. They would soon be great- he, Norway and Denmark, three corners of an empire that ruled as coldly as the North itself.

'All right.' he nodded. 'Let's go.'

Several days later, Sweden found himself at the head of a battle fleet, once more sailing towards the green strip of land that was England. Norway stood silent at his side. Denmark had bidden them farewell with customary cheer, setting off for the north in the company of King Cnut. He was childishly excited about this expedition, Sweden and Norway less so. Their role was that of diversion- the diversion was usually expendable.

'We'll see him again,' said Sweden, unprompted. Norway shot him a look. There were several expressions intertwined there- indignation, wounded pride, but perhaps a little relief too. Sweden knew, beneath his perfectly cold exterior, Norway hid strong emotions he would rather keep concealed. His aloofness had only come after years of practice, years of pretending he did not care. _We all must harden our hearts._ He had done the same: had staredd unflinching at blood when he wanted to faint, watched countless companions grow old, wither and die, had tried desperately not to feel guilty at his own eternal youth.

The village was different to when they last saw it. Sweden remembered a cluster of small wattle-and-daub houses with thatched roofs, one thin curtain wall hiding the main town, bands of unblooded warriors and the screams of the dying. In all, a pitiful sight. Which could not be said of what faced him now. He counted at least two hundred spear-tips, flashing silver in the sunlight, spread out throughout the town. Though the name _town_ was less of a lie now. The houses were gone, replaced by a harbour where ten warships rested, cruel iron prows pointing mockingly at the approaching Viking ships. He could just glimpse soldiers on those too, like little pin-men. But the wall was the worst part. It was at least twice as tall as last time, undoubtedly thicker as well. Archers lined the top, bows poised ready for enemy flesh. The commander was unmistakeable- a smallish man in the middle, bearing the flag of the English king Aethelred. With a jolt, Sweden wondered if it was him: the boy everyone had called Arthur, to hide his true identity. _He is a nation. Just like us. And now his power has grown._

He unsheathed his sword and stepped to the front of the boat, pleased to hear forty warriors behind him do the same. But Norway had not noticed. He was scrambling to the edge, shouting to the neighbouring ship's captain. When the two boats were close enough, he leapt from Sweden's side and onto the deck of the other ship.

'Norway! What are you doing?' No, he couldn't abandon them now- he was being foolish, selfish. Norway's face was blank and unreadable, as ever.

'We'll never take the town like this!' he called over the wind. 'We're turning now, to look like we're fleeing. Then we'll land somewhere further west and bring the attack from behind.' Sweden hesitated. The plan seemed logical- when was Norway ever anything but logical?

'All right,' he said at last. 'I'll see you again!' Norway shouted something, but it was whipped away in the brewing storm. Sweden fixed his eyes on the horizon, and prayed that he would be reunited with his brothers soon.

6.

He was sure he had done the right thing. He _had_ to be sure. Norway's fingers drummed out an anxious beat on the ship's side, eyes fixed straight ahead. He appeared calm- but to anyone who knew him well, they would have noticed the grim set of his face, the rigid way in which he held himself, and would immediately deduce that there was something wrong. _This was my idea. It will be my fault if everything goes wrong_. Their journey was not a long one, a few miles at best, and then he would be reunited with Sweden, hopefully having crushed England's first line of defence.

'Faster,' he muttered to the drummer. The man hesitated, but began to beat more quickly upon his instrument. The rowers complied, propelling their arms back and forward until sweat broke out upon their faces. They would be tired after this- too tired to fight? A sick feeling churned its way around Norway's stomach. He felt dizzy, feverish, despite the brisk winds blowing across his face.

'Land!' There was a booming crash as twenty pairs of oars dropped, followed by the loud exhilaration and relief of forty Vikings. But Norway could not share in their joy. Had he brought too few men? Would Sweden be waiting for him on the other side of the wall, only to discover that he had died for nothing? Or were there too many- which meant his brother further downshore was doomed? Doubt after doubt circled about his mind, and he only nodded distractedly when one of the warriors told him they were beginning to approach the shore. _Please. If there's any gods out there, please. Let this work. Let us live._ He asked Odin, the old god of his people, asked the new Christian god, asked every other god he could think of until Norway was entirely sure he could get into any heaven he chose.

The seawater seeped into his boots. He ignored it; simply unsheathed his sword, and looked to the north. _I will see him again._ His men talked quietly amongst themselves, laughed and compared axes, cursed and mocked one another, did anything but acknowledge the bowed head of their leader, shoulders weighed down with responsibility. At last, the towering wall of the village came into view. Just as Norway had suspected, it was heavily unguarded, with only four sentries present. A few well-placed arrows were enough to get rid of them. Then it was onwards, on to the wooden gate, which fell to the axes of his men. He could feel himself shaking. There was a strange heat to his blood, a frenzy which made him want to run screaming into the town and carve everything to pieces with his sword. _Battle fever._ Those two words made Norway smile. He had always been cold- now it appeared he had some warmth in him. All his doubts fell away suddenly.

'For Cnut.' he said, turning to the band of warriors. Some repeated it, others took up the cry- then it spread through the crowd, rumbling and rising until Norway could feel the glorious rhythm of victory racing through him.

'For Cnut! For the king!' They came forwards, breaking into a run. Norway saw the petrified faces of villagers, heads poking from windows as they heard the alien shouts, and rejoiced in the harsh words of his language, words that only made sense to him and these people beside him- these people that would kill and die and _live_ today.

The wall was a scene of utter carnage. He raced into it blindly, carving the first soldier he saw in half, dancing about the Englishmen and cutting them down as easily as though they were posts of wood stuck in mud.

'Nor! Norway! _Norge_!' Sweden waved to him from high up on the wall, sword dripping ruby-red. His brother was _terrifying_ , a great tall demon bathed in the blood of his enemies, a smile that somehow fitted plastered across his face- and yet Norway loved him all the more for his barbaric look. He was up the steps in an instant, as though wings had carried him there. Never had battle been so beautiful. The two of them fought back-to-back, moving to music that no others could hear, showing the English what it truly meant to be a warrior. Man after man fell before their swords. The stink of the bodies did not exist, nor their tortured screams- only _this_ existed, this fury and glory and wonder.

'England! There!' Norway looked past where Sweden pointed his sword, to see the pale head of their enemy whipping round the corner. He knew England was taller, faster, more spite-fuelled and battle-hardened. And he also knew that he could catch him. Norway's legs set off at the same furious pace that had brought him running into the town. It was so easy- to just sprint after England and seize him by the shoulder. His magic bubbled up from within, spewing out in a crackle of red light.

'Your land is mine. _Ours_.' Sweden came up beside him, and laid the tip of his sword against England's neck.

'Surrender.' England's eyes flashed upwards. They were green, the colour of summer leaves. Too warm for this fight. His throat worked furiously as he swallowed, coughing before he gave his answer. His country had withstood the might of Rome, the wild Picts and barbarian Gauls. But nothing could overcome the cold of the North.

'I surrender.'

They made him say it again later, twice- once in the hall of the village- the other kneeling by his defeated king, Edmund Ironside, in the siege-battered city of London. Norway had never felt so full, full of victory and glory and greatness. That was the most he had seen Sweden smile for decades. But the best day was the day their king came home. He rode at the head of a great Viking horde, laden with English gold, English treasure, and the smell of English blood about him. Norway heard the hooves of the horses first. He assembled the welcoming party at the gates of London, he and Sweden and their commanders stood proud, with England on his knees before them in the dirt. When Cnut came galloping through the smashed gates, he took his crown from the hands of the defeated nation himself. And right behind him, riding over the ruined wood with his crimson cloak streaming behind him, and his great battleaxe stained the same colour, was Denmark. He vaulted carelessly off his horse and threw himself at Sweden and Norway.

Cnut was crowned on what the English called Christmas Day, in their own capital of London. Norway could not keep the grin off his face as the new monarch was hailed- and as Denmark took his hand, vowing that they would always be together.

7.

As the years went by, the dynamics of their little group changed. Rising kingdoms and empires meant that their rulers needed them more, so there was less time to see each other. They were not brothers anymore so much as allies, not friends like they were confidantes and advisors. Freedom became a thing of the past. But through it all, Denmark had managed to keep his promise to Norway- that they would always be together. They spilt the months between each other's kingdoms, spending half a year in Oslo and half a year in Copenhagen, leaving only when it was absolutely necessary. Time passed strangely. A ruler might live for five years, ten years, half a century. To them it was nothing. They remained young on the outside, aging one year for every hundred that passed. But it left its mark on the inside. Denmark felt as though he knew Norway utterly, completely, as well as he knew himself. The colour of the sky at night was his eyes- deep velvet blue, silver-speckled- the way the sun came up on a winter's morning was pale and touched with gold, just like his hair. He knew his light, quick walk, knew how he liked to be left alone every full moon to practice his magic, how when he smiled, it began slowly- then happened all at once, face splitting into a grin that rivalled the glory of a summer's day. They had each other memorised- and only memory like that could come from countless decades' worth of companionship.

Yet Denmark felt as though he hardly knew Sweden at all. The tall, awkward child had grown into a man who was taciturn and cold by turns, with a warmth underneath that he never quite revealed. He served his king quietly but well, fought only when it was necessary, acted as an envoy to both Denmark and Norway- but never acknowledged those he had once called _brother_ with more than a respectful nod.

'What's _wrong_ with him?' Denmark burst to Norway out one day, after Sweden had answered every one of his questions with either a single word or a blank stare. They were in Stockholm to discuss a renewal of the alliance between their countries, an event that should have been a joyful reunion. Norway rolled his eyes.

'He's jealous. Envious. We-' He broke off abruptly, staring at his lap.

'Jealous of what, Nor? Things have never been better! We're powerful, rich, we can invade anyone we want, withstand any war-'

'He's jealous of us.' The words came out quickly, so quickly that Denmark had to replay them several times in his head to be sure.

'What do you mean?' They stared at each other for a long moment- sky-blue eyes facing deep navy, a fight between light and dark. To both their surprises, Norway broke away first.

'How we're close.' he muttered. 'For every week we spend with him, we spend six months with each other. We're always together- think about it. When was the last time one of us saw him alone, not as a pair?' Denmark felt sudden guilt building up inside of him.

'I don't know.' he mumbled at last.

'Exactly. We know each other better than anyone, and yet we don't know him. Our brother.' Denmark did not reply. He clasped his hands together; unclasped them, buried his head in his hands and let out a long breath.

'Norge-'

'Oh, Den, can't you see? He's _lonely_.' And suddenly, as though a light had flickered in his head, he could see. How Sweden looked at them both- intensely, with no clear emotion. How he made excuses and begged off from catching up, preferring to spend long hours signing parchments and discussing politics with his king. Everything Denmark found hideously boring- but now he saw that his brother buried himself in work to hide his pain. To _forget_.

'Nor,' he said, reaching out his arms. Norway sat down next to him- and they held each other tight, embracing with something more than the bond between two friends. 'I'll talk to him,' he whispered into Norway's hair. 'I don't want him to drift away.' As he resolved to bring back his brother, so did something else surface. A tie between him and Norway. A tie that ran deeper than anything they had felt before.

Sweden trudged over fallen branches, careless of the snow that was piling up in his hair. How long he had walked for, he did not know- and he did not care. There was a pain inside him that hurt more than the cold, an aching wound that could not repair itself. It had plagued him for so many years. Denmark was his true brother, bound in blood as well as friendship, a steadfast companion through so many years of war and toil. They had fought together, laughed together, bled together...and now they were hardly together at all. Norway. His other brother was not really that at all- a brother made through cautious conversation, through alliances and a shared pleasure in silence. A brother of similarity, rather than blood. _Three. Always three, unbreakable, unmoveable, undefeated._ Now that three was falling apart. He saw it- the open affection with which Denmark looked at Norway, something strange and soft in his eyes. And how Norway returned those gazes when Denmark turned away, only darker and more fiery in their passion. Soon it went further than mere staring. They lived in each other's castles, sharing meals and counsel- and for all he knew, a bed. Sweden had no doubt, that, if he asked, he would be welcome to join them in their constant companionship. But he would always be something of an outsider, kept away from the secret jokes that only the other two understood, alienated by his silence. _A stranger._

So Sweden gave it up. He worked harder than ever before, so much so that even his king told him to take a break, trained daily with the sword to release the tightness inside him, did everything but meet with Denmark and Norway. And now he was further away from them than ever- but not so far that it did not still hurt. Sweden stopped his walking for a second, breathing in deeply. This was no longer his land. He felt certain of it. He had gone east, starting from the fringe of Stockholm and continuing from dawn until dusk. This was wild country, the forests empty of sentries and the border left unguarded. Only the sky above was familiar- but dark, too dark to be outside at night. _I have to find somewhere to stay._ Briefly he wondered if his brothers had noticed his absence, if they would send someone to find him. Somehow Sweden doubted it. _If I just died, here and now, would they care? Would they remember?_ So long he stood there, wrapped in his bleak reverie, that he did not notice a pair of eyes staring at him from out of the gloom.

'Ruotsi.' The voice startled him, and he gave a shout, reaching for a sword that was not there.

'Who are you? Show yourself!'

'Ruotsi.' The speaker stepped forward. He was young, sixteen at most, dressed in pale blue. His hair was not unlike Norway's, but softer, more golden, fringe just touching above a pair of strange violet eyes. They seemed to glow in the darkness, a beacon of hope and light that Sweden was still disinclined to trust. The boy seemed harmless enough- but he had made that mistake before during wars, and paid the price in blood. 'Ruotsi.' Something stirred inside of Sweden. He felt- though it could not be, it was madness- that 'Ruotsi' was his name, just as he was Sverige in his own tongue.

'Is that my name?' The boy did not appear to understand. He gazed up at Sweden, a puzzled smile on his face, and pressed two fingers to his lips. _I do not speak your language._ Sweden understood his meaning perfectly. It disturbed him. 'What...what is your name?'

'Suomi.' _Suomi_. Images flashed through his head- images of clear, glassy lakes, forests of pine and birch, a cold snow that settled over everything. And a darkness to the east, a darkness that made Sweden feel absurdly protective. He followed when the boy began to walk, much against his better judgement. The forest seemed warmer somehow. They travelled in silence, though a hundred questions burst up in Sweden's usually quiet mind. _Who are you? Where are we? What is this place?_ He had other suspicions too- suspicions that could only be satisfied by careful observation.

His companion was utterly at home in the forest, skipping over every broken branch, feet hardly seeming to sink into the snow. In comparison Sweden was dull, tired, plodding. He nearly cried out in relief when a light came into view, illuminating the walls of a wooden house. It stood in a clearing, long and low, nothing like the royal castles that Sweden had become accustomed to. But he followed the boy in anyway. Where there was light there was warmth, and he wanted nothing more than to be warm just then. Inside, the wooden house was a hive of activity, countless people crammed in that made it seem much bigger than it was. Children chased after each other, screeching in words that made no sense to Sweden, five or six men sat round a barrel in various stages of intoxication, and there were several women on the other side of the room laughing and pointing at them. A sudden heat blossomed through Sweden, a heat that was not the heat of fires. A heat that meant more to him.

His strange new friend was speaking to an older-looking woman sat by the fire, who nodded along with his words. At last she rose to her feet.

'You are Ruotsi.' she said, in the halting tones of a foreigner.

'Yes.' It seemed to be the right thing to say.

'Then you are welcome here, for tonight. But tomorrow you must leave, with- with-' She cast her eyes about the room, as though searching for the right word. 'With Suomi. Take him. Protect him from Venäjä. He is like you.' Sweden looked back at the boy, who was clearly not that anymore- now a nation, friend, new ally. He wondered who _Venäjä_ was. A different word came to mind.

'Finland.' he said. The boy shrugged, nodded, seeming to accept his new name. _Suomi_ was too different, too strange. Finland would serve him better.

That night, Sweden slept soundly for the first time in years. He forgot Denmark, forgot Norway, forgot everything expect the boy with the violet eyes, who was mystery, wonder- beauty.

8.

Sweden's return was not as he had imagined it, but pleasing nevertheless. He walked through the gates of Stockholm, to find Denmark waiting for him, smiling, and for once alone.

'Bror,' he murmured, enfolding Sweden in a tight embrace. He did not know whether to feel shocked, or grateful, or both. _When was the last time he held anyone but Norway?_ Just as they broke away, he thought he heard Denmark breathe, 'I'm sorry'. But it was too quiet to be sure.

'Where's Norway?' Sweden asked guardedly. It was best not to get too hopeful in these situations. Denmark's face grew pensive.

'Gone to his colonies- to Iceland. There's been some unrest up there.' He straightened, and smiled again.

'Who's this you've brought back with you?' Sweden hesitated. Finland had been his and his alone, if only for a few hours, and that was a luxury he rarely felt.

'Go on,' he whispered, nudging Finland gently in the back. 'This is Finland. He'll be staying with us for a while.' Comprehension dawned in Denmark's eyes. He looked at Sweden- _Finland's one of us, our brother._

'Welcome to Stockholm! I'm assuming you've never been before?' He had been a Viking not so long ago, and no doubt for Finland the sight of him rushing forward, hand outstretched, was quite a frightening one. Finland made a small noise, stepping back.

'Doesn't speak our language.' explained Sweden. 'But he'll learn.' Denmark nodded enthusiastically.

'Let's get him inside! We've postponed the negotiations for a while, at least until Norway gets back. We can't risk Iceland declaring independence just now.'

Finland turned out to be an avid drinker, much to Denmark's delight. He downed countless flagons of the finest dark ale, making toasts in his own tongue that grew increasingly long and complicated.

'It's no good, Sve.' mumbled Denmark, after what must have been his twentieth or thirtieth tankard of ale. 'I'll never beat him. He's more of an alcoholic than me.' Sweden simply smiled. He had accepted one small glass of the stuff, not wanting to make a fool of himself in front of their new friend. It was proving to be a sound decision. Some time after midnight, Finland reached into the small bag he had brought with him and pulled out a bottle full of clear liquid. 'Vodka', he called it. Denmark groaned.

'I've heard of that stuff. It's completely lethal.' Nevertheless, he managed to consume a full mug of it, before collapsing comatose onto the table. Finland laughed delightedly, draining his own cup. Sweden's head jerked up. Finland's laughter- he had never heard a sound like it. Clear, unslurred by alcohol, like the chiming of a dozen glass bells. _I want to make him laugh again._ He dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. Why would Finland- strange, lovely, hard-as-iron Finland- ever be interested in him? Even Denmark, drunk half the time and good for little but fighting, was probably more appealing. But Sweden could not stop himself from smiling. He caught Finland's eye; lilac, heather, violet, more flower-coloured than anything.

'Brother.'

'What?'

' _Brother_.' Finland pointed from Denmark to Sweden, then to himself. 'Brothers.'

Something clenched inside of Sweden. He did not truly want Finland as a brother, (wanted him as a companion through the centuries who would stand by him no matter what, who would smile at him and see past the grim face, be strong and loyal and _loving_ -) not as Denmark was his brother.

'Friend.' he said. 'Friend.' Puzzlement crossed Finland's face, which only served to make it more endearing.

'Friend.' he repeated slowly. That same bright smile flashed suddenly. He touched Sweden lightly on the shoulder, then was gone, moving with his customary grace. Sweden stood there, empty cup in hand, for so long it might have been millenia.

'Sve?' Denmark's voice jerked him back to the present. He turned to look at his brother, and was shocked to see his face crumpled with sorrow. 'We're back together again, aren't we? Please?' He had always let more slip when drunk, that was true. And Sweden had yearned for this day. But now he had a choice. Finland, and half-stolen glances, a rare brush of hands, hope so slim it might as well be invisible? Or the brothers that had been with him for so many decades? _Both_. A voice entered his head. _Why not both?_

'Yes.' said Sweden. 'Yes. We're all together.'

Whilst his brothers reconciled to the south with their new friend, Norway was heading north. The swaying deck beneath his feet felt strange. There had been no need for sea battles in a long while, now that their populations had grown sufficiently for a proper army. But Norway knew the sea would always hold a special place in his heart. He sat at the prow, the wind in his hair, accompanied by a sense of freedom that was only now beginning to feel familiar. Where else did salt spray taste so sweet, where else could churning blue monsters be seen as beautiful, but out upon the open ocean? _Denmark would have given much to be here now_. Out of the three of them, he had always revelled in the open waters most. But for once, he had declined the opportunity to be reunited with his first love.

'I shouldn't, Nor.' he said, when Norway told him about the situation in Iceland. 'It wouldn't be fair on Sweden. You go. I'll stay here and wait for him.' It had been a mournful, but bravely smiling Denmark that waved Norway off at the harbour. _He will be all right. He is strong._

Norway took in a deep breath when they were put ashore, inhaling the scent of this strange, wild place. When he first discovered it all those years ago, it had been the same- the green smell, fresh and brisk, laden with heather's muted fragrance, and snows so cold he could almost touch them, feel the ice against his fingers. _And now its people have risen up._ As rumour would have it, at least. He set off up the bank, walking past several empty fishing nets. The little settlement soon came into view. It was composed of a few dozen small cottages, scattered with seeming randomness across the island, presided over by a wooden longhall. A few sheep grazed in a waterlogged field; somewhere overhead, a seabird squawked. There was not much else. Norway felt shame prickling at him; this was _his_ colony, _his_ responsibility, and it was his fault if anything went wrong. Which, knowing his luck, it had.

It took him nearly a full minute of pounding before the longhall's door finally creaked open. An elderly woman poked her head around the frame, eyes boring into Norway and his little band of warriors.

'You can come in,' she said, pointing one talon-like finger at Norway. 'You-' she indicated the others- '-stay here.' Inside it was a little more hospitable, with several cookfires burning merrily and the usual collection of drunks up on the dais. There was a tall, red-haired woman amongst them; she seemed to be outdrinking the considerably larger men around her.

'Ingrid Jørnsdottir,' muttered the crone. 'She's fancied herself a warrior ever since she killed that one raider two summers ago.' Norway frowned. _Raiders?_ He kept the thought to himself. If there was truly a rebellion being hatched in Iceland, it would not do to aggravate the people further.

'I wish to speak with your leader.' he said, pulling off his gloves. 'Please.' He was led to a seat right beside the cookfire, next to a man sporting a rather magnificent auburn beard. Norway did not fail to note the way the man eyed his engraved dagger, nor the fine leather of his boots.

'I have been sent here by the king, to discuss-'

'I know why you're here.'

'Very well.' He did not allow himself to be perturbed. 'In that case, might I be permitted to address your people? This is a matter of great concern to His Grace.' The man snorted.

'When's he ever concerned himself with us?' His voice was guttural and deeply accented, which only made Norway more aware of how formal his own words sounded. I have become soft. Suddenly he realised he was no true Viking anymore; he wore silk and silver, sat beside a king in council and had his own servants to attend him.

'What's the matter? Something trouble your pretty head?' He laughed when Norway did not answer. 'I'll give you my name, if you give me yours. I'm Jørn. Jørn Liefsson.' That would make him the father of the drunk girl up on the dais.

'Lukas Bondevik.' Norway managed, stumbling over the words. It felt unnatural. His brothers called him Norge, Norway, Nor (and how he had smiled when Denmark whispered 'elskede' in his ear that day at the harbour). Indeed, Jørn found it ridiculous too.

'That's a pretty name.' he said teasingly. 'Only we both know it's not true. You're more dangerous than all my best warriors put together. Than _me_. And all because of what you are.' A chill came over Norway. _How? How does he know? How? How?_ He could hold no other thought; his mouth was dry, despite the mug of ale at his elbow.

'There's no rebellion.' he said softly. Jørn nodded. A cruel grin cracked across his face.

'But there's something worse.'

'What?'

'One of them. One of _you_.' All at once, his feeling returned, brighter and better than before. _Another one! One of us!_ Jørn's disgusted tone was lost on him.

'Where?' Norway blurted out frantically, discomfort forgotten. 'Can you take me?' But the man simply snorted again, shaking his great red mane.

'Your sort's wrong. _Evil_. You were never meant to exist. I'm not going back to that place again.' And with that, he rose, leaving Norway sat speechless on his own. There was no rebellion, no threat to his kingdom. He had been lured here, lured by the fear of people that were too far from anywhere to understand. And now there was another nation, waiting to be found.

Norway ignored the shouts of Jørn Liefsson, ignored the confused words of his men outside, ignored everything except the ground beneath his feet, the path that would carry him to a new brother. _Not going back there. Not going back there._ What struck him so by the word _there_? He pondered as he walked, careless of the swamp-like land and the water gushing into his boots. And then he stopped. For _there_ was the answer. Towering, colossal, terrifying- a mountain spewing red ash, as close to hell as living man could see. He set one foot upon the rock, and began to climb.

Later, when he returned home, Norway would wave off those that called him a madman- Denmark amongst them. Because he knew it had been worth it. Worth it to brave the smoke and molten rock, for a brother that adored him- a boy with snow-pale hair and amethyst eyes- for Iceland.

9.

Teaching Finland Swedish proved to be no small task. He could write well enough, in a flowing script that made the letters look like art, but more often than not he used Finnish. When Sweden attempted to talk to him, he would give that blank-but-lovely stare of his, and turn away from his self-appointed teacher.

'Give it up,' Denmark often said. 'If he doesn't want to learn, you can't make him.' But that was his attitude in everything- he saw no point in trying to fix something that didn't work. Sweden hoped fervently that he was wrong. He wanted to speak to Finland in a language that was not one of stolen glances and half-smiles, wanted to give voice to his secret thoughts. So he persevered. Finland was made to read scrolls and notes from the king's councils, made to copy out hundreds of words thousands of times over, and at the end of the day, had to read a passage from the Bible. Denmark and Sweden both listened to his reading every night, though they were still wary of the Christian faith. Odin and the other gods had passed out of living memory, so it fell to them to honour their old religion, never truly accepting the one God and his ordered world.

'Love is pat...patient.' read Finland that night, as the three of them were gathered around the fire. 'Love is kind. It does not- does not en... _envy_. It is not-' He hesitated, finger under one word.

'Proud.' mumbled Sweden.

'It is not proud. It does not- dis- dis _honour_ others, it is not self-see...seeking.' Sweden's head jerked up. Was that what he was- self-seeking? Did he teach Finland merely for his own gain? The Bible, to him at least, was a constant mystery. It preached that love was a good feeling, and should be nurtured. And it damned those like him, those like his brothers, who loved each other more than they would ever admit, damned them to hell.

'It is not-'

'Stop.' He rose, taking the book from Finland's hands. 'I don't want you to read that anymore.' Finland stared up at him with bewildered violet eyes. Sweden forced a smile. 'You can read what you like now.' There was a pause as Finland deciphered his words. Then he beamed brightly, nodding and mumbling his thanks in broken Swedish. Denmark watched him go with a fond expression on his face.

'What was that, _lillebror_? Going to teach him the ways of Odin now?' Sweden said nothing. A curious burning sensation had built up inside him, focused on the little black book in his hand. _I love him. It is true._ And if the book forbade that love, than he would turn his back on it. He crossed the room and wedged it between two slats of wood, not quite brave enough to burn the thing. Denmark nodded. 'Good decision. I always preferred a bit of paganism.' Finland returned at that moment, perfectly on cue. He was struggling with a thick leather-bound tome, gold-edged and worn.

'I like- I want this. To read this.' That earned him another smile. Denmark laughed, swinging his legs over the side of his chair.

'Should be a good read. As far as I recall, some of the entries are in blood. Particularly yours, Sve.' For once Sweden returned his laugh, remembering. This book belonged to them- he, Norway and Denmark- and had been where they recorded every one of their journeys or battles. And indeed, some of it was done in blood.

'Hard to get ink in the middle of a war,' muttered Sweden, just failing to suppress his smile. Finland resumed his position in front of the fire, book spread across his knees.

'December 25th,' he read fluently. 'Lon- London, England. Today ou- _our_ \- king was crowned.'

'This one's mine.' cut in Denmark. 'Gods, I miss old Cnut.'

'The North is _ours_. We ru- rule from the seas, from the- the-'

'Earth.'

'The earth, from a thr- throne of gold. And we will never give up our em- empi- _empire_.' He looked up, awed.

'When was this? When was your- _kingdom_?'

Denmark and Sweden exchanged a look. The loss of England had been a crushing blow, not to mention the death of Norway's king in trying to reclaim it. Their invasions there were a thing of the past, reduced to petty raiding to induct new warriors.

'A long time ago,' said Sweden gently. 'Something best forgotten.' Finland screwed up his face in concentration.

'Then- then I will forget.' he stuttered.

'No. Don't forget. Read the book. That's who we were before we met you.' His smile kindled, flickered- then burst into flame, a radiance across his whole face that tied Sweden's throat in knots.

'Thank you.' said Finland. He touched Sweden's hand. It was nothing really, the lightest brush of fingers, but to Sweden it felt as though his whole world was floating in the heavens. He watched Finland leave again, this time clutching the precious book, eyes lingering on the door long after Finland was gone. A sudden laugh jerked him from his daze.

'You're not exactly subtle, are you? It's a good thing the boy's so innocent, or he'd have got out of here as fast as he could.'

That was probably the thing Sweden detested most about his brother. Denmark could be drinking and joking one moment, perfectly harmless. In the next he would display his irritating talent for finding the thing that bothered a certain person most. And in this case, he had done so for Sweden. _I thought I was safe. I thought no one would know._ But was he really that transparent? Did every word, every look to Finland reveal his true feelings? Perhaps Denmark was just suffering lack-of-Norway withdrawal symptoms. Either way, he had cut Sweden right to the quick.

'Going to bed.' he muttered, making for the stairs.

' _Godnat_ , Sve, Make sure it's your own room you end up in.' The sound of Denmark's laughter haunted his dreams that night.

Norway came back the next day, hopefully ready to put Denmark back under his control. His brothers, old and new, waited for him at the harbour. Denmark began to shout and wave the second he spotted the sails, energetic as a puppy.

'Who?' whispered Finland. Sweden resisted the urge to sweep those blond locks from his forehead.

'Norway,' he said. 'Our brother. You'll like him. He's quiet too.' Norway stepped elegantly from his boat, ever correct. He frowned at Finland.

'Who's this?'

'Our new brother. I found him a few weeks ago.' Sweden ushered Finland forward. He smiled at Norway and extended his hand, just as he had been taught. Norway shifted the bundle in his arms and took Finland's hand briefly, before turning to Denmark, who looked positively explosive with excitement.

'Nor!' he said, holding out his arms. But to all their surprises, Norway ignored him.

'We need to get inside,' he said. 'I've got something to show you.'

They gathered around Finland's storytelling fire, Norway in a high-backed chair. He shifted his bundle, pulling away at the top. A collective gasp hissed about the room. For there, swaddled in countless layers of blankets, lay a child. His eyes were the strangest thing Sweden had ever seen, a shining purple even brighter than Finland's, ringed in indigo. He could just see tufts of white-blond hair, poking from beneath the wrappings.

'What's his name?' whispered Denmark. He appeared utterly entranced- a look Sweden had seen only once before.

'Iceland. He's Iceland.' Iceland was a colony of Norway's, previously with no human representative. There could be only one reason why one had appeared now- the little island's strength was growing, growing to an extent that it needed a channel for its power. Norway smiled- a little sadly, thought Sweden.

'He won't be so small for long. The people there- they're becoming aggressive, independent. It'll take a lot to keep him a colony forever.'

'Can I hold him?' said Denmark, still slightly dazed. Norway shot him a fierce look.

'He's my little brother, and if you think I'd trust him to a clumsy idiot like you, then you've got less of a brain than I thought. If that's possible, of course.'

'But I can still hold him?'

' _Fine_.' They took turns admiring Iceland's ethereal, almost fairy-like features, sighing in unison when he let out a little yawn.

'The boldest Viking in history, felled by a small baby.' muttered Norway. Denmark, who currently had possession of Iceland, grinned broadly.

'You think I'm the boldest Viking in history?' Norway flushed.

'I never said that. Idiot.' But he was already returning Denmark's embrace.

'What are they doing?' said Finland in a small voice. Iceland had been passed to him after Norway's little slip of the tongue, and he clutched the little nation tightly.

'They- they're-' Sweden could not find the words to describe Norway and Denmark's relationship. It was a strange one, admittedly. They circled each other constantly, closing in at moments, joined by a force that linked fire and ice.

'Love. They're in love.' He blushed as he said it, the words too romantic for his tongue.

'We are _not_!'

'Oh, come on, Nor! That's not fair!'

From that day on, they were five, five united by blood and more, inseparable in any combination. Finland soon became fluent in Swedish, despite his original misgivings, and quickly learnt its few differences to Danish and Norwegian. When they were alone they used Old Norse, or stumbled along in Finnish at Finland's insistence. Those days were good ones. Iceland never knew the violent childhood of his older brothers, instead growing up in various castles. He rarely voiced memories of his own land. Denmark and Norway became ever closer, no matter how much they denied it. And Sweden could only watch- watch in envy and despair, as his stern face and crippling fear alike kept him from Finland. But soon they were to be bound together closer than ever. For when a letter arrived from Denmark, away with his queen in Copenhagen, it signalled the start of a union that would make and break countless bonds.


	2. Chapter 2

**This is my first fanfiction! I'm really excited about writing the rest of it, so please leave a review to let me know what you thought :D (I'll accept constructive criticism!) The first chapter was a series of small pieces I posted to my tumblr, but they were too short to be separate chapters so I put them all together. The rest of them will be longer and more detailed, because I want to cover as much history as possible. The M rating is for some possibly disturbing/violent scenes later on. Anyway, enjoy, and review (please :D) my tumblr is norxcoffee if you have any questions, or just leave them in the comments! (I do not own Hetalia or any of these characters)**

'This union could be the start of the most powerful empire Europe has ever seen. Or it could shatter Scandinavia beyond repair.' Denmark stood facing his queen across a long table, just the two of them in this most important of meetings. She had outlived father, husband, son, all to claim a throne that she sat better than any of them. 'It will be your responsibility to ensure all members of the pact remain satisfied. I do not wish for a war now, not when our alliances are so strong.' He could hear the truth behind her words- _keep your brothers happy, and there will be no trouble._

'Of course, Your Grace.' Margaret scrutinised him for a moment, lips curling up in a small smile. Ruling had taken its toll on her- her face was lined permanently with fatigue, and silver crept in at the roots of her hair, but otherwise she was the same regal queen Denmark had always known. And that was enough for now.

'The terms of the pact are as follows,' She spread a large scroll across the table, inviting him to look. It was covered in dark, dense writing, embellished here and there by small symbols or headings done in illuminated ink. 'Norway and Sweden, with all their dependencies and colonies, will enter under the rulership of the Kingdom of Denmark.' Her eyes caught his briefly- cold, ice-blue. 'I wish to make it clear that our country-' _Me_ , thought Denmark- '-is the senior partner in this union. The royal court shall remain in Copenhagen, and all matters of state will be handled there as well. The capitals of Norway and Sweden will be so only as a formality.'

Margaret brushed a hand down the bottom of the scroll, revealing a space with several scrawled names at the bottom.

'I have signed the scroll, as has my chosen heir.' Denmark smiled, seeing the words 'Margarethe Dronning' inscribed in the bold script of his queen. Below, in smaller, somehow shyer letters, was Eric of Pomerania's signature. He was Margaret's great-nephew, a timid boy hardly suited to a throne. But blood was what mattered. Not like in the days of the Vikings, when men did not care whose right a kingdom was, only that its king was fit to be so. 'I expect you to sign, and the other two members of the pact.'

'I have summoned them to the city, Your Grace. We should expect them within a few days.' Margaret nodded.

'Good. This means security, after so many years of fighting. I hope they see that too.' Denmark had to suppress a laugh. His brothers were proud, prickly. He had no doubt they would resent being under his leadership, no matter how many decades of peace it brought.

'Now, if you would?' She held out a quill to him. He dipped it in the ink, and wrote 'Kongeriget Danmark', as neatly as he could. The queen smiled then, a truer smile than any Denmark had seen for some time. _She has always loved power_. When he knew her as a young girl, at the court of her father King Valdemar, she spoke of little but the great empire she would rule some day. _And she spoke truer than she knew._ Time had passed; the little girl was a woman now, queen of three kingdoms, with grey in her hair and age beginning to show. _Whereas I am young as ever._ Denmark ran a hand resentfully through his own hair, (still completely blond after four hundred years) and offered his queen an arm from the room.

'I do not intend to give Eric full power when he comes into his throne,' she said as they walked. Denmark glanced down at her face, and saw nothing but contentment there. 'It would be to unleash havoc upon Scandinavia.'

'But, Your Grace-'

'He will never know better. Eric has always listened to me- why should it be any different when he is king?' She stared back into his eyes, inviting the challenge. He took it willingly.

'Boys- young boys- they can be stupid. The feel of a crown on your head changes much, and not for the better. He may defy you simply because he can.' Margaret sighed, dropping his arm.

'Sometimes I forget just how old you are.' He smiled gently.

'Contrary to what my brothers would tell you, Your Grace, I use my eyes and ears as well as anyone. I've seen good kings, bad kings, mad kings, boy kings. Eric is not mad, but neither will he be good. Perhaps you should reconsider your heir-'

'No. If I can control him- and I can- then the kingdoms will be safe. All the people need is a ruler of royal blood, and they don't care what happens in the background. They want someone who will smile and wave from a golden carriage, nothing more. Eric can do at least that.' Margaret sighed again. 'If only the rest of the world could know you existed. There would be no need for all this rubbish of marriages and pacts and bloodlines.' She stalked to the door- _ice queen, fire queen_ , thought Denmark.

'One more thing. If he asks you for advice, then by all means give it to him. But if he gives you an order you cannot follow, then come to me. Do you understand?' He nodded.

'Eric ruling me, you ruling Eric, me outliving the lot of you. What a mess we're in.' That made the queen's eyes narrow dangerously.

'It will _not_ be a mess. You shall see to that- after I am gone.' With that departing statement, she swept from the room, false smile fixed into place for her courtiers.

Denmark was left standing by the door. He stayed there for a few moments, contemplating Margaret's words. It was times like this that made him truly feel his age. _I have seen dynasties die out. This Kalmar Union will never last._ But whilst it did- and he felt it would, for at least a century if the gods were good- he would try and make the most of all of them being together again. _This is what I wanted. To bring Sweden back again. Isn't it?_

They arrived three days later- Iceland riding before Norway on their horse, Sweden and Finland close together as always.

'Norge!' He embraced Norway as soon as he was off his horse, Iceland squashed between them. That familiar flicker was inside him, a sensation of floating he only ever felt when Norway was with him. In council with his queen Denmark had been formal, polite, correct- now he could hardly keep the grin from his face, could hardly quash his delighted laughter.

'Sve,' he said, clasping their hands briefly. 'And Fin!' Finland gave him a proper hug, squeezing him in those surprisingly strong arms.

'Come on, the queen's waiting inside!' There was a lightness inside of Denmark, a radiant joy he felt only when in the company of his family. _If I have them, it is as though I do not need air._ Finland, a steadfast brother in alcohol, constantly there to listen to his drunken rants; Sweden, who conveyed more in one silent stare than any words, who had done what no one else could and absolved his guilt; little Iceland, a brother who truly looked up to him, begged to be carried and loved nothing more than to hear Denmark's old Viking tales, almost (he hardly dared think it) a son- then Norway. Cold and beautiful, ice-like. Ocean-blue eyes. Eyes so deep he could drown in them. And, unfathomably, the one who knew him best, knew his favourite ale, knew how he hated fighting archers, knew what every whispered secret in the night meant, knew that everything they shared amounted towards three small words. Denmark had not realised how much he missed them all.

Queen Margaret received them in the throne room of her castle, draped in white-trimmed scarlet silk and with a crown of gold on her head. _Royal colours. The colours of our country._ Three banners covered the wall behind her- the royal crests of Norway, Sweden and Denmark. Though just yesterday, she had been saying how she planned to incorporate them all into one- the crest of Kalmar. Beside her throne stood Eric of Pomerania. He was rather short for sixteen, barely taller than the already-small Finland, and he regarded the five nations knelt before him with worried, watery eyes.

'I welcome you to Denmark on behalf of King Eric,' said Margaret, voice ringing out rich amongst the rafters. 'I trust you shall find your visit pleasant.' She stood abruptly, smoothing out the skirt of her dress. 'If you would follow me?' The five of them rose, Eric trotting behind his great-aunt like an obedient little dog. _No good being obedient_ , thought Denmark. _It's power we need. Strength and power._ They took seats around the same long table.

'Eric, wine, please.' The boy flushed, before scurrying to the side of the room and returning with a flagon that looked much too heavy for his scrawny arms. Denmark fought back a sigh as a drop of wine splashed onto his crimson tunic. _At least the stain will not show._ His brothers did not fare as well- they wore mostly blue, which was soon blotched by Eric's haphazard pouring.

'Now,' said Margaret. 'You all know why I have gathered you here.'

'The union.' muttered Sweden.

'Indeed. It will bring great peace and prosperity to Scandinavia, I am sure you all agree.' There was a series of nods and mumbles. 'In front of each of you is a condensed version of the terms drawn up-'

'Forgive me, Your Grace.' Norway's voice was impeccably polite, if a little cold. 'But we have had no say in these terms. How do you propose to ensure peace when two members of your treaty do not know how to make that peace?'

To her credit, Margaret did not falter.

'An excellent point. You are invited to discuss, and change if necessary, any part of the pact that does not meet your wishes.' She surveyed them all from the head of the table, icy eyes seeming to cut straight to the soul. None could hold her gaze for long.

'I take it there are no objections?' After a moment, Sweden nodded his agreement, and Norway, having scanned the parchment meticulously for any problems, was forced to do the same. 'Good,' continued Margaret. 'Now that we have established that the pact meets your terms, I ask you to sign the main treaty.' The queen watched, hawk-eyed, as Norway and Sweden affixed their signatures to the parchment. Her smile when they finished was reminiscent of a wolf, fangs bared. 'Henceforth from this moment, the kingdoms of Denmark, Sweden and Norway, including all colonies, are united under one banner, one crown, one king.' _One queen_ , thought Denmark. He did not know why the room felt so cold suddenly.

Later that month, they stood as five in the cathedral of Kalmar, watching as Eric of Pomerania was crowned king of Denmark, Norway and Sweden. Queen Margaret was in regal splendour beside his throne. The smile on her face could have been interpreted as proud, fond even, but Denmark knew better. _The power is all hers._ And an afterthought occurred to him- the power was all his too. His nation was superior in this union, even if the others did not know it. All he had to do was reach out and take it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Here it is- Chapter 3! Sorry if this feels like a bit of a filler, but more exciting things will happen soon :D (please review? Just a single word so I know someone's out there...)**

He stood atop the highest tower, watching the lazy slide of the sun beneath the horizon. The sky here was huge, swallowing up everything from the edges of the earth and spreading its colours as far as the eye could see, from eggshell blue to gilded pink. There was not a cloud in the sky, and so the weather was fine and sharp, sending fingers of ice to crawl beneath Norway's cloak. A warm fire awaited him back inside- but he had come here to think. Tomorrow would mark the tenth year of their Kalmar Union. King Eric, as Denmark had predicted, found vivacity with his crown, but lacked all the political nuance of his great-aunt. And Queen Margaret's grip on him lessened with every passing day. _But her energy does not._ So desperate was she to strengthen the union, Margaret made Eric marry an English princess, tossing aside all of the enmity between their two countries. Norway grimaced, recalling the awkward affair that the ceremony had been. He and the others, forced to smile and be polite with England, shake his hand and compliment the prowess of his people in war. _We cannot let go. We still remember._ Though perhaps the queen was right; it might be best to put aside old hatred. He inhaled deeply, breathing in cold autumn air, and ventured inside.

It did not take him long to locate Denmark. He stood in the middle of their rooms, directing servants carrying iron-bound chests and occasionally stopping to swear under his breath.

'What's all the fuss?' said Norway, slipping off his cloak. Denmark's face instantly brightened, frown unfolding to be replaced by his signature wide smile.

'We're leaving, did you forget? And everything has to be ready. Sweden's over at the new place, sorting out the furniture.' Norway let out a well-deserved sigh. Of course he had not forgotten. To mark the anniversary (but mainly the continued success) of the union, Queen Margaret had bestowed upon them a house across the other side of the city. 'To thank you for your long services to the crown', she told them. Yet Norway knew better. Ever since King Eric was notified of their existence, he had harboured a burgeoning resentment that only grew with each day- a resentment for their immortality, their eternal youth and strength. For all his charms, the king could not bear to think there was someone more powerful than him. This so-called gift was merely a distraction, something that would take them away from court, and from the king's displeasure. Although he had not confided in anyone so far, Norway could not help but feel apprehensive about moving. These ten years brought change with them. Denmark, grown giddy on power, thought nothing of asking Sweden to saddle his horse, or making Finland write letters for him. They were treated almost as servants- servants who lived in rich rooms and commanded even the queen's respect- but servants nonetheless. It was only made harder when Denmark exerted his natural generosity, buying Sweden and Finland expensive presents, or allowing them more money than they would ever need. But he was very firmly in control, whether he knew it or not.

Norway, to his own shame, felt as though very little had changed in his own life. At least not for the worse. Denmark had become even more affectionate, if that were possible, embracing Norway at every chance he got and no longer bothering to hide their relationship from Sweden. _I am iron, tempered in blood and the sorrow of half a dozen centuries. I shatter glass wherever I go. Yet he acts as though I am made of it._ He pitied Sweden, it was true- and forgot that pity whenever Denmark's arms wrapped around him. Norway led a charmed life. He only wished that he could do so without guilt constantly worrying at him. Careless of the servants scurrying everywhere, he reached out and gave Denmark a brief hug. Denmark laughed, somewhat confused.

'Nor-'

' _Storebror_?' a little voice called from the doorway. Iceland stood there, dressed in his nightclothes, pale hair falling into fatigue-huge eyes. Norway felt his chest clench with love. His little brother was one of the few innocent people left that he knew, and the only one to whom there was no guilt attached.

'What is it, _lillebror_?' he said, picking him up. Iceland kneaded his eye with a small fist.

'I heard people walking around. They woke me up. And they kept dropping things, and Dan was bring loud-'

'Hey!' interrupted Denmark. 'I wasn't that loud!' He ruffled Iceland's hair, making him squint in tired surprise.

'You were.' muttered Norway. 'Come on, I'll tell you a story. But you need to go back to bed now.' Iceland nodded reluctantly.

'Tell me the one about the children under the sea,' he mumbled, already drowsy. A wicked grin split Denmark's face.

'I think you'll find I know that one better than your big brother, Island.' Iceland was too tired to argue otherwise. He let himself be tucked into bed, eyes barely open. Denmark began the story. He had copied it out into their blue book of history, but knew it by heart anyway.

'Down below the white-crested waves, below where light can pierce, there is a kingdom amongst the coral. Few have seen it, but the palace is carved of rose and diamond...' Norway felt his own eyes growing heavy. Contrary to appearances, Denmark had a gift for storytelling. Once, Norway had caught him singing, in a quiet, mellow voice, and filed the event for future blackmail. He let himself be carried away on those imagined waves, savouring a piece of childhood he had never really known.

'No one has seen the sea-children and lived. But sometimes, you might catch a silver fin, a green eye...a pale hand. And you will know they are still there, beneath white-crested waves.' Denmark faded to a whisper. For a moment he stayed utterly still, holding Iceland's small hand in his own. Their eyes were closed, though Denmark still smiled, awake. Norway held his position by the door. _Is this what I want? Iceland lulled to sleep by stories every night, the three of us together, one happy family?_ He did not think he could bear to watch Sweden crumble from the outside as it happened.

'Nor.' He let Denmark take his hand, touch his face. And when the inevitable kiss came, he returned it with all the passion he felt but never spoke, seizing the moment utterly before guilt set in. Norway could feel Denmark's smile beneath his lips, and parted from him a little. 'I lo-' He reunited their faces before Denmark could finish. Hands fumbled at the collar of his shirt. Norway covered them with his own, pushing away gently.

'Not now.' he muttered. He gave Denmark a final kiss, chaste and on the cheek, before stalking hurriedly to his own room and bolting the door. Norway collapsed onto the bed. His heart fluttered like the frantic flaps of a butterfly. _What am I doing?_ It was wrong, unfair, but oh _so_ beautiful, something that felt completely right with every touch. He thought back to the sentence Denmark had never finished. _I do too. So much. More than you will ever know._

The fine weather of the day before broke, replaced by snow that stuck to the ground as soon as it fell, hardly melting. _A good thing we leave today._ Norway had woken that morning with the taste of dark ale in his mouth- an all-too familiar taste. He washed it away surreptitiously, as though there was someone watching and judging.

'Ice?'

'In here.' came his brother's voice. Norway swept in, wrapped in blue-grey wolf fur and with finely tooled leather boots to his knees. Iceland was not so elegant, however. Someone had smothered him in so many layers of sable his face could barely be seen, from above the ball shape he now resembled. 'They said it's going to be cold today,' he piped up, somewhat muffled.

'And they were right,' replied Norway, stifling his laugh. 'Come on, the others are waiting.' They made their way down to the courtyard. Denmark was already ahorse, magnificent bearskin cloak spreading out around him. Norway faintly recalled him killing that bear, some twenty years back. Sweden and Finland eyed him with faint distaste. They broke out into smiles (or at least Finland did) when Norway approached with Iceland.

'I'm glad we're going,' said Finland, ever the diplomat. 'It'll be good for us to be together.'

'And maybe Den can find someone else to sort out his horse.' muttered Sweden. Denmark chuckled good-naturedly.

'Cheer up, Sve. I'll find someone else if it pleases you- it's just you were always the closest person! Anything for my _lillebror_.' He grinned; Sweden gave a sharp nod.

'I wish you good fortune in you new home.' came a cordial voice from some way back. It was Queen Margaret, stood alone in her fox-fur stole. _So the king did not even deign to show his face._ 'King Eric sends his regards, and regrets that he could not be here to bid farewell to five of his most loyal subjects.' She smiled down at Iceland, who squeaked in fear. To him, she was the great fire queen of Denmark's stories, someone to be feared. Not the aging woman Norway knew she was now. She let Norway kiss her hand, shook Sweden's, put a friendly arm around Finland, pinched Iceland's cheek. Then she went to Denmark, staring up at him on his great warhorse.

'I do not expect we shall see each other again.' Only Norway was close enough to hear her words. Denmark looked pensive.

'There's always hope. We can visit.' Queen Margaret's smile was almost motherly.

'I doubt that is a good idea. The king- well, yes. I suppose there is hope. But I feel my years beginning to fall away. _Husk mig når jeg er væk, Kongeriget Danmark_.'

'Of course.' He gripped her hand tightly in his own, then was gone, riding off through the gates ahead of all their luggage wagons and carriages.

'Into the carriage,' Norway told his brother.

'But I want to ride with Dan!' A cold hand clutched at his heart.

'That's not- he wants to be alone right now. He's sad.'

'But _why_?' cried Iceland, and the whine of his voice cut Norway deeper than any knife.

'Island, do as I say.' They climbed in and closed the door, watching Sweden and Finland ride off ahead. For a fleeting second, Norway wished he could be out there with them. He wanted to feel wind in his hair, snow on his tongue, warmth in his heart. But his little brother had to come first. So they set off slowly. And perhaps that was better- to be away from Denmark until his grief cooled, away from ever-frozen Sweden and silent Finland. Once again, Norway closed off his heart.

Joy reigned in Finland's heart. He rode beside his best friend, free from stuffy council rooms and those rude people who hardly hid their disdain for his accent. Sweden was quiet- he was often quiet these days. Finland prided himself upon his ability to read people, and what he saw was discontent. That puzzled him. Everything they needed was right here. Brothers, friends, a home for them all somewhere along the road. Why should Sweden be unsatisfied, when he had all that? There was only one thing Finland could think of. He gathered that some time before he had come to live here, there had been unease between Denmark and Sweden. They were the oldest, with equally strong personalities that were always trying to overrule the other. And Denmark had Norway. That alone was enough to clench Sweden's hands into fists, set his blood boiling. For all his stoic pretenses, he was breaking down inside. _He needs someone to hold him together. If only to match Denmark_. Finland had done his best to be that someone. He spent time with Sweden, talking and drinking, probing carefully until he could say he knew the man better than anyone- than the two who called themselves his brothers. But it did not seem to be enough.

'Ruotsi.' That seemed to make Sweden happy- speaking to him in a tongue only Finland understood. 'Were we told how far it is to the house?' Sweden was silent for a moment as he pondered.

'An hour, maybe more.' That brought the brief conversation to an abrupt end. Finland gave himself to the snow, tipping back his head to feel the white flakes caress his skin. _The cold is so beautiful. Snowflakes, icicles, a frozen lake one chilly morning. There is nothing better_. He grinned at old memories- memories of leaping into those lakes clad in nothing but his own skin, then sprinting back to the warmth of the sauna amongst friends whose faces had blurred with time. Everything good in his life had come through cold. Meeting Sweden- how that had changed things. _I learnt that I was not alone. And that meant more than anything._

They rode on in companionable silence. Finland made several attempts to rekindle the conversation, all soon extinguished by Sweden's monotone replies. But he did not care. Surely Sweden would see sense soon, would reconcile with Denmark and Norway before they drifted away forever. _They need each other. They cannot exist without each other._ And that was the sad truth of it: they might accept Sweden, treat him as a treasured friend, but at the end of the day, they could manage without him. Finland could imagine nothing sadder. _You are wanted_ , he thought desperately, trying to transmit his thoughts to Sweden. _You are needed. I need you._

He became so engrossed in those thoughts, he hardly noticed when they came through the gates of their new home.

'Fin,' mumbled Sweden. 'We're here.'

'Oh, yes!' He dismounted, resuming his place at Sweden's elbow. 'I hope they've set out the vodka, like I asked.' That at least earned him a smile. Finland stared up at the house- mansion, really, his jaw dropping in amazement. It was beautiful, a four-storey wonder of polished wood and carven stone, leaden windows glittering here and there. A set of polished marble steps led to the front door, which was guarded by two sentries. Finland made a mental note to write his thanks to Queen Margaret as soon as possible. Even the royal castle was not so luxurious as this. They entered, only to find Denmark pacing up and down the hallway anxiously.

'Nor and Ice here yet?' he said when they came in. Sweden shook his head. His eyes were rather dull, boring into Denmark like deep blue spears. 'Anyway, I'll show you your rooms! Sve, yours-'

'We'll go up ourselves. _Thank you_.' added Sweden, with a sarcasm that may or may not have been imagined. Denmark was not deterred.

'Cheer up, _lillebror_!' He threw an arm around Sweden's shoulders. Only Finland saw him flinch. 'You don't have to be my servant anymore. Happy?'

'Barely.' muttered Sweden, though it was lit with a little smile.

'Good! C'mon Fin, let's find that vodka!' Finland responded with customary enthusiasm, though inside a cold feeling of unease had settled. _Please let this work. Please let them make up. Please._ He did not think he had ever wanted anything more.


	4. Chapter 4

**Here's chapter 4! This was probably the most difficult to write- read it and you'll see why :D (I do not own Hetalia or the characters execpt OCs)**

Life in the big new house proved difficult at first. They had all been used to serving the current ruler at court, so to be discarded by that ruler left them with nothing to occupy their time. Norway retreated further and further within himself, speaking rarely to anyone but his faeries. He could often be found in the grounds of the huge estate at midnight, making roses bloom with a spark or simply letting the magic bubble from him in ribbons of pearlescent light. Finland's quest to make Sweden happy soon evolved into making him and Denmark reconcile. There had been no true argument between them, no words better not said or some disagreement- only that Denmark was drunk on power and glory, and would not let Sweden share in it. But Finland tried, he really did. In the centuries to come, he would look back and reflect that at least he had made some effort to repair the crumbling relationship. He gave the order for a sauna to be constructed, and subsequently forced the other two to spend copious amounts of time in there. Usually, it resulted in Denmark stalking out after half an hour, bored, and Sweden staring at the wall with a gaze so full of ice, it could have pierced skin. It was one day, in early autumn, when Finland's latest idea would come to be the thing he regretted most.

'Hunting,' he announced one day. 'Let's go hunting.' His suggestion was met with enthusiasm from Denmark, apathy from Sweden and Norway, and a confused stare from Iceland.

'What happens at hunting?' he said. _Hopefully, Denmark and Sweden stop their stupid farce of a feud._

'You go into the woods, and look for animals,' he explained. 'Then..well, then-'

'You kill them!' cut in Denmark. He was met with dirty glances from the others. Iceland merely looked thoughtful.

'Noregur's been teaching me how to use a bow,' he began, eyes darting shyly from their faces to the floor. 'But I don't know if I can shoot well enough to _kill_ things.' Denmark laughed, ruffling Iceland's hair.

'Told you the boy was a Viking! Why would he be frightened of blood?' And indeed, Finland had to admit that was not the reaction he expected. Small children typically met suggestions such as hunting with shrieks of horror and tears. Iceland was clearly an anomaly.

'All right,' he said, voice bright to hide the surprise. 'We'll do that! They're saying next week the snows will clear up, so we can go then!' Norway rolled his eyes, and muttered 'Fine.' Sweden shot Finland with one of his piercing glares. Then, mutely, he nodded. Something warm blossomed within Finland. Perhaps this would really work.

But later, when he was curled up in front of the fire with a book, Sweden came to seek him out.

'I know what you're doing, Fin.' he muttered, sinking heavily into a chair. 'It won't work.'

'And why not?' Finland strove to keep the smile on his face. Sweden could be irritatingly obstinate when he wanted to. 'You and Den have centuries of history. Surely that's enough-'

'No.' His expression was pained, as though he held back tears. An absurd urge to cup Sweden's face in his hands came over Finland; _no, that's not helpful now._ 'That's exactly why we _can't_ make up.' He paused when his voice gave a tremor.

'You can tell me,' said Finland softly, daring to take his hand. It was calloused from years of fighting, covered in small, pale scars. _But warm. Gentle._ Sweden hesitated- then it all poured out. How Denmark had always been taller, stronger, braver. How he charmed every one of their kings with his vivacity, charmed even cold Norway. At first, when they were young, he paid more attention to Sweden. But as his nation grew in strength, he became swept away on war songs, bloodied axes, and soon forgot about the little brother he had sworn to protect.

'But he never forgot Norway,' Sweden's voice was something beneath a whisper- so he did not cry, Finland thought. 'Not in all those years. And now...now they've got Iceland.'

'Iceland's our little brother too, Ruotsi. He _loves_ you, can't you see?' Sweden just shook his head.

'Denmark and Norway...they've been together so long, having Iceland's just natural for them. They're like- like a family.' And Finland supposed he could see that. Iceland only asked Denmark for stories, only wanted Norway to go riding with him and teach him archery. He treated Finland and Sweden as though they were brothers- but distant, only going to them when necessary.

'And you feel excluded?' Sweden nodded.

'But it's not just that.' He took in a great gulp of air, kneading his eyes and sitting up straight. 'Denmark- he _annoys_ me, Fin. He's my brother, and much more bearable when I've had something to drink. But most of the time I can't stand him. Everyone we meet, all our rulers and servants and the courtiers, they all love him. They think his loudness is charisma, think his arrogance is bravery, see a great warrior instead of a thick-skulled _idiot_!' He burst out the last part with a passion that was so unlike him, Finland felt inclined to run from the room and bolt the door. _I have to stay. I am all he has._

'He's all of that, Sve. He's loud _and_ charismatic, arrogant and brave, all of those things together. And you're-' He paused, smiling. _Silent. Stoic. Perfect._ 'You're quiet. Modest. You don't like it when the room's too hot. Your favourite drink is Norwegian aquavit, even if you'll never admit it to Norway. You want Iceland to look up to you, so you try your hardest to be a good example to him.' Finland took Sweden's other hand, clenching them both tightly. 'I notice you. I notice all that. You and Denmark are just different. The hunt will resolve things, I promise.' _I hope_. But his words seemed to work; Sweden smiled, truly, and gave Finland a quick embrace.

'Thanks, Fin. That meant a lot.' He slipped quietly from the room, leaving the door open. Finland's smile fell. No one knew- how much effort it took, to be happy always when he saw his brothers shooting figurative daggers at each other, when Sweden refused to cooperate or Denmark kissed Norway in front of him. _Perhaps if I am happy, Sweden will be too._ It was with that thought circling his mind, that he at last slipped into a fitful slumber before the dying embers.

However, due to unforeseen circumstances, their hunting trip did not go quite as planned. Denmark was called away to suppress a group of Swedish rebels, and Finland had to attend the funeral of one of his most powerful bishops. That left Norway, Sweden and Iceland in the big house in Copenhagen. Sweden was more than ready to forget their plans, seeing as the main reason for them was reconciling him and Denmark, but Iceland insisted upon going. Norway could never say no to his little brother for long, so it was a party two-thirds resigned and one-third excited that set off north, towards the game-filled forests of Sjaelland. Iceland practically squealed when they stepped from the carriage. All his life he had been sheltered, his status as a nation meaning that he could not play in the streets and swim in the sea like other children. This was his first true taste of freedom.

'Shhh.' admonished Norway. 'You'll frighten off prey.' Iceland giggled, but pressed a hand to his lips. They set off at a steady pace, stepping carefully around fallen branches and leaves so they would make no noise. A flame of joy leapt up in Norway. All his old instincts were returning: to walk downwind, so the animals would not smell them coming, look at every tree for scratch marks, listen to every slightest noise like it is a clap of thunder. He glanced at Sweden, and saw that same quiet exhilaration reflected on his brother's usually stony features. For once, Norway felt glad Denmark was not with them. His hunting technique was special, to say the least- make as much noise as possible, to draw out the bears and wolves. Denmark could take them with his huge battleaxe, though he had earned his share of scars throughout the years. But with Iceland here, the bears and wolves were more likely to prevail, so Norway stayed with silent and stealthy.

' _Storebror_! Look!' He followed where Iceland's finger pointed, to a pheasant strutting across the forest floor.

'Go on,' whispered Norway. 'You can have this one.' Iceland did not hesitate, stringing his small bow and fitting an arrow to it. But his hands were shaking with nervous excitement, and the arrow flew just wide. That sent a flock of previously concealed birds streaking into the sky, some of which Norway and Sweden were able to bring down. The movement made his arms ache. _It has been too long since I held a bow_. But he had been a Viking; these things were still second nature to Norway. He ushered Iceland to collect the fallen birds, trying not to grimace when his brother returned covered in blood and feathers.

'We'll move further east now,' he muttered to Sweden, wiping red from Iceland's beaming face. They walked with the winds, occasionally shooting some lazy pigeon. But animals were far and few upon the ground. Norway had them all stop by a tree for a moment, whilst he listened to the sounds of the forest. There was nothing but leaves swishing against bark, the far-off _caw_ of a crow. 'Something's frightening them off.' he said quietly to Sweden, not wanting to panic Iceland.

'Bear, perhaps.' replied his brother in an undertone. 'We should go.' Norway nodded his agreement, and reached back for Iceland's hand. Ice crept up his back. His brother was gone. He darted round frantically, eyes desperate for a flash of pale hair.

'Iceland?' he hissed. 'Island? Emil! Emil!' He met Sweden's gaze.

'Sve, he's gone! I don't know- what can-'

'Nor, stop.' Calming hands dropped onto his shoulders. 'He's a child, you know what they're like. He won't have gone far.' Nodding, Norway knelt, pressing one palm to the ground. He reached for the familiar ebb of magic, feeling through the forest to locate his brother. A pale blue haze surrounded him, deepening to red when he passed over some life form. The roaring that filled his ears was so loud, Norway did not notice three hulking shadows stood over him.

' _Storebror_!' He was jerked out of the trance, to find Iceland's small hands clutching at his cloak. Relief made Norway dizzy.

'Oh, thank the gods, Island-'

'You. Stay where you are.' He looked up, arms instinctively slipping around Iceland. Three men stood, forming a ring between them and the tree- a ring in which Norway, Iceland and Sweden were trapped. The tallest of them continued to speak. 'I saw what you did. I saw the pretty lights.' His voice was deep, low, deadly serious. ' _Witch_.'

'What? No, no, I swear-' His heart raced like a horse leaping over fences- everyone knew what they did to witches, no one was safe- yet no one was ever a witch. _Is that what this gift makes me? A witch?_

'You must come with us, and stand trial before a jury of twelve. Any threat to us is a threat to the kingdom of Christ. Unatural, unholy.'

'No.' To his back Norway felt Sweden tense, hand on his sword hilt. 'I am not a witch-' The slap took him hard in the face, so unexpected Norway dropped to his knees.

' _Noregur_!' Iceland's voice sobbed in his ears.

'Don't call me-' A pair of hands seized his arms. _Too strong. I cannot escape this._ Sweden was already in action, springing forth with his steel raised high. But another sword met his, and soon he was locked in a fierce battle, two against one. Iceland had run behind a tree, and Norway could just see his eyes, peering round in utter fear.

'Emil! Run! Go back and get-' He hesitated. Finland was away, and Denmark- the thought of Denmark was too painful to bear. 'Get help. But go!' His brother did as he was told, spinning about and dashing off into the forest for all he was worth. The echo of his sobs would stay in Norway's mind for longer than he liked. His captor started to walk, and Norway thrashed about desperately, kicking and biting and scratching to no avail. The man was simply forged of iron. He bore no resistance to Norway, but neither did he falter, clutching him tightly and striding off out of the forest.

' _Sverige_!' he screamed. 'Help me!' A muffled reply came. He just glimpsed his brother, staggering from a slash in the leg, sword barely parrying each blow. And then Norway's mind was made up.

'Go after Ice!' he yelled. 'Protect him!' Sweden's eyes met his: despairing, hopeless. Then he nodded, and with visible effort, turned his back on Norway. Norway had never felt so helpless. He hung limp from his captor's arms, all the fight gone out of him. _I'll never see Iceland again. Never sit by him when he has his story, never say goodnight, never watch him grow_. And he would never sit in amiable silence with Sweden, never share his rare smiles with Finland- never see Denmark again. What that had attached to it was too painful to think upon. _Only that I would always have a place with him. That I never told him what he said every day with his actions, with every embrace or kiss_. Tears built up in his eyes, and he let them fall, defeated. The steps towards his fate were long and quick.

When they arrived at the little village, Norway was thrown into a tower room of the tiny castle. It consisted of a thin pallet bed, one ragged blanket-and that was it. Even the window was barred, with no glass, so the cold night air could get in. The four walls seemed to close in with every passing hour. _I was never a prisoner. No matter how many wars we fought, I always came out on top, always dominated along with Denmark and Sweden._ This, he supposed, was his first real loss. Norway spent hours just sat there, knees hugged to his chest in a feeble attempt to ward off the cold. The agitated tempo of his heart had by no means slowed; it stuttered and fluttered, making his chest clench uncomfortably. Just as the sun was beginning to set, Norway heard voices outside. He scrambled to the window. But the sight that met his eyes was enough to fill his throat with dread. Four men, carrying armfuls of wood to the little village square. They arranged it in a circular shape, with one long pole fixed at the back. _For me. This is where it all ends._ Then he could not stop his sudden rush of fear, and collapsed into the corner of the room, vomiting from fear until his stomach was empty, and all he could bring up was a sickening yellow bile.

'Lukas Bondevik, you stand charged of witchcraft.' The voice of the village elder was slow and solemn. 'These men swore they saw you in the late morning of yesterday, performing arts beyond what our Lord gifted men with. What do you say to this?' Norway's throat tightened, threatening to make him sick again. What could he say- yes, I have magic, no, I'm not the bloody Devil's best friend. _Not a witch._

'I admit to conjuring magics-' A horrified gasp shuddered around the room- '-but I will not say that I went against God. I consider it a gift.' He paused, drinking in the faces of his accusers. There was little support for him here. 'Sometimes the veil parts for me; sometimes I see things others cannot. And what is that but divine intervention?'

'An intervention of something evil. If God had intended for us to see such things, he would show them to everyone. I put it to the jury that Satan himself came to this man, and took his immortal soul in exchange for powers beyond what is holy.' Murmurs of agreement rose up; Norway felt despair flooding his mind.

'Stop!' All eyes turned to him- _the witch, the accused, the condemned._ 'Your saints performed miracles. Who cannot say that this was a miracle?' He looked about, begging, hoping beyond belief. But the elder shook his head.

'What was seen can only be viewed as _wrong_. Now, if I could have the votes of the jury? All for guilty, raise your hand.' The result could not be argued with- every single hand flew up, their owners glaring with hatred at Norway. The elder nodded approvingly.

'An obvious- and just- result. Lukas Bondevik, you are convicted of witchcraft, and sentenced to be burnt at the stake tomorrow. May God judge you as He deems fit.' Norway could hardly believe what he was hearing. He did not protest as he was dragged back to his cell, as the door was locked. Only when he was alone did he fall down onto the bed in a dead faint.

Sweden and Iceland arrived home at some time after midnight, stepping from their carriage into the cobbled courtyard. But a very unexpected, and frankly welcome sight met their eyes. Denmark, still clad in bloodied armour and cloak, leading his horse to the stables.

'Dan! Dan!' Iceland, who had remained quiet for the majority of the journey, burst forward, sobbing loudly enough to wake the whole house. Denmark turned, smile slipping as soon as he saw Iceland's tears.

'Hey, what's wrong, Ice?' he said, sweeping Iceland up into his arms.

'There were bad men- they said Storebror- the took him-'

'Norway got accused of witchcraft,' muttered Sweden. 'We tried to save him, but he was taken to the village-' He stopped, watching in bewilderment as Denmark remounted his horse and set Iceland in the saddle before him. Then they were gone, galloping through the gates before Sweden could say another word. He shook his head. If Denmark was as angry as he seemed, more people than just Norway were in danger.

He woke at the crack of dawn- perhaps because of the watery sunlight, but more likely because of the raucous shouts outside. 'Witch' was most common, but he heard 'Devil' and 'Abomination' as well. _Only fitting. Us nations have never been liked_. Norway combed his hair with tired fingers and stood, ignoring how his legs quaked. Out of the window, his pyre was ready, ringed by soldiers suppressing the crowd. _Fire. The worst way to die._ But he had had far longer than was fair, centuries of strength and youth. This might be a just thing after all. Norway allowed two men to haul him down the stairs, dragging him whenever he slowed so that bruises began to form on his legs. _But it does not matter now._ They left the castle through a little side door. The mob was much louder here- yelling because they could, projecting their woes onto this horrible death. Norway kept his head down, ashen hair falling in his eyes. His hands clenched into fists. _I will not weep for them. I will do this with dignity, even if no one remembers it_. No one was there to save him. Maybe Sweden and Iceland never made it back. That thought was more depressing than his own impending death, and he had to hold in tears as they shoved him roughly towards the stake, holding him in place with thick ropes until Norway was almost being suffocated, never mind burnt.

'We bring this man before you,' said a voice. _Oh gods, a bloody priest._ He closed his eyes and let them get on with it. 'To be judged by your eternal wisdom, Lord. He has committed crimes that may not be permitted in this holy land, and for that he must burn. Amen.' The _amen_ was chanted back eerily by the crowd, a final damning for the pagan that would die today. _Odin. If you're there, kill the bloody lot of them. I believed in you when no one else would_. Norway opened his eyes, and instantly regretted it. Four soldiers carrying torches, one in each corner, were lighting the foot of the pyre. _I will not scream. I will not scream_. Someone had dampened the wood, for ultimate pain; it caught slowly, sending up billows of smoke. The ground beneath Norway's feet grew warm. _Please. Iceland. Sweden. Denmark-_

'I lo-'

' _Norge_!' That beautiful shout echoed over the roar of the crowd, over the dull mumbling of the crowd, over everything so that all Norway could hear was sweet, sweet redemption. ' _Norge_!'

'Den!' he called back weakly, throat scratchy with smoke. Through the haze he could just see Denmark, sprinting at a speed that would put wolves to shame, still armoured with his red cloak flying behind him. He easily trampled through the crowd, kicking aside men, women and children alike. The first flames licked Norway's feet just as Denmark shoved his sword through the face of a soldier. Battle fever fuelled his every action, and soon there were soldiers swamping him, holding him back, twenty against one still a hard-won fight. And now the fire covered his feet- it hurt more than anything, like a thousand white-hot knives stabbing all at once, rising up with the dryer wood on top until Norway broke his promise and screamed to the heavens...his eyes streamed from smoke...he could no longer see Denmark... _I want to die, kill me, please,_ please _, KILL ME!_

Norway had disappeared beneath billows of smoke. But his screams were still audible, horrible death throes that tore Denmark apart, drove him to his knees. He clutched little Iceland to him, sobbing brokenly into his hair. The soldiers had long since dispersed. Not now it was too late to save Nor. _I loved him. More than anything, more than I thought was possible. And I never told him._ He and Iceland stayed, clinging to each other, as Norway's screams faded away and the crowd began to leave. Denmark felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see the priest who had condemned Norway. _Bloody one-god idiot_. In one swift movement, he unsheathed his sword and buried it deep in the man's stomach. His look of surprise was the sweetest thing Denmark had seen in a long time. He stood, stabbing again and again until his armour was flecked with fresh blood and Iceland stared up at him, frightened.

'Dan?' he said timidly. Denmark took a deep breath. He supposed Iceland was his responsibility now.

'I'm sorry, Ice.' he mumbled. 'I'm just...' _Angry? Sad? Utterly destroyed?_ The fire had died out by now. 'We'd better take Nor home,' he continued, trying not to choke on the words. For what was there left to take home but scorched bones and ashes? Denmark picked his way through smouldering wood- and gasped. For lying there, skin red raw and peeling, all his lovely hair crisped away but _alive_ , was Norway.

'Nor?' he breathed. A small moan was the response. Denmark wanted to laugh; to cry, to draw his sword and murder every last bastard who had been a part of this. But he did none of those things. Instead, he swung the cloak from his shoulders, and wrapped Norway gently in it, grimacing at his howls of pain.

'We're going home, Nor.' He lifted him onto the horse, reins in one hand and Iceland holding on behind. And they began the long journey home.


	5. Chapter 5

**Here's chapter 5! Sorry for the wait- and thank you to all those people who have followed and favourited this story! I also want to say a huge thank you to ToBeSugarySweet, (spiritussalis on tumblr) whose lovely post raised awareness for my work completely out of her own kindness! There's a bit of swearing in this one :D- but it's M rated for a reason. Finally, I do not own Hetalia or these characters. Enjoy the chapter! (sorry for rushed ending :D)**

They arrived back in the city just as the midday bells were tolling. Denmark dismounted his horse slowly, mindful of the precious cargo in his arms.

'Ice,' he said, turning to the tired-eyed boy. 'Go and find Finland. Tell him to have a room prepared, with spare sheets and bowls of cold water.' Iceland nodded, sneaking one last look at his brother before trotting off through the doors. Warmth spread through Denmark. _He is a good boy._ He set off at a gentle pace, ignoring the shocked faces of servants and their hurried whispers to each other. His expression was calm, if a little stern- but underneath Denmark's mind whirled furiously. Norway had just been burnt at the stake. And he somehow managed to survive that burning. Which offered to him a rather bleak conclusion. All his life, Denmark had never truly regarded his immortality, assuming that he would die like anyone else if dealt a fatal blow. That blow had not come- yet- but now Norway had cheated death, coming out whole. _We cannot die. Not if we're all in one piece._ He had a sudden horrible mental image: of hacking at the head of a huge snake, only to find that more heads grew in its place with every swordstroke. _Invincible. Indestructible._ It made him feel inhuman, like a machine built merely for war. And perhaps that was all he was.

Finland met him in the corridor, chewing at one nail whilst his eyes bore a worried hole into the wall opposite.

'Oh, thank goodness!' he cried out, rushing towards Denmark. 'Norja?' He pulled tentatively at the cloak around Denmark. Norway let out a sharp hiss of pain, turning his head away. 'Bring him in here.'

'This is going to hurt,' mumbled Denmark, and lowered Norway onto the bed. Howls of pain echoed about his ears; he tried to forget them, to let them wash past like wind. Together he and Finland surveyed the damage. Norway's skin was a patchwork of angry red, blistered wounds weeping pus and blood, staining the sheets wherever he touched them. His eyes were screwed shut so tight it looked painful. After a moment, Finland sighed, picking up a cloth and dipping it in the water.

'The best we can to is relieve his pain. Perhaps put on some bandages, if it doesn't hurt too much.' Denmark followed suit, letting the water wash across Norway's torso. He was no longer wincing- a good sign, surely. They worked in silence, until the worst of the blood was gone and Norway lay stock still, covered by a blanket with his fists clenched almost as tightly as his eyes.

'What happened?' said Finland at last, sinking into a chair. His eyes went to the exposed skin of Norway's skull; his mouth grew taut.

'I had just got back- and Ice ran at me, yelling something about witches and bad men.' Denmark stretched out in his seat, sighing. 'Then Sweden said some idiots had run off with Norway, so of course the first thing I did was gallop out of the gates. Gods, Fin, I was so _stupid_. I had time to get some people together, but no, I thought I could take them on my own. What Nor went through-' He broke off, shaking his head. They looked back at Norway, who lay exactly as he had been left. 'How long?'

'What?'

'How long until he recovers?'

'I'm no doctor,' said Finland, smiling regretfully. 'You'll have to get a professional in to look at him, if you think there's a problem.

'And do you? Do you think there's a problem?

'No, why?'

Denmark did not answer for several moments. His hand brushed through his hair, a nervous tic developed over the years.

'Because this means we can't be killed,' he said in a low voice. 'I always thought we'd die like anyone else if we were stabbed, or drowned, or whatever. But now Norway's survived _that_.' He gestured to the mess of blood and smoke in front of them- still breathing, still alive. 'And I don't know what to think, Fin. I don't know if this is such a blessing anymore.' He wanted forever with Norway, that was certain. But not a false forever. Not one where they would come back after every loss, like in a story.

'Then try to take it as one,' came Finland's voice, slicing through his glumness. 'We're nations, we're in far more danger than most people just walking down the street. Perhaps we should be thankful that we get a second chance at our lives if something goes wrong.'

'But not just a second chance. More chances, as many as we want. Everlasting life- but with an added bonus.' He was not sure whether Finland's smile mocked or pitied him.

'This is the first time one of us has died, Den. That's a five-century survival streak we can be proud of.' Denmark laughed, much to his own irritation.

'Maybe you're right,' he murmured, plucking absent-mindedly at the strap on his mailed gauntlet.

'Of course I'm right,' said Finland, standing up. 'I'm going to find Ice. The poor boy's had quite a day, what with watching his brother die and all that.' And later, this would be something they recalled with shudders and grim smiles- an anecdote for only those like themselves, the nations that could sympathise with being executed and similar. Denmark took the hand of Norway's that rested above the blanket, and was surprised to find its skin unmarred. _He must have been clenching his fists the whole time. As they lit the pyre, and the flames rose around his feet._

He looked up, hearing the click of the door. Sweden came in and pushed it shut behind him, taking the seat that Finland had vacated.

'How is he?'

'Rough. He was in a lot of pain when we brought him back.' His brother nodded, never talkative for long. Sweden's eyes roved over Norway, taking in every bit of raw, exposed skin.

'What happened, back there in the woods?' Denmark tried to keep his voice light. But an all-too familiar rush was building up inside him, a red haze of anger that made everything and everyone seem like an enemy. There was a heavy silence. Sweden leaned back, rubbing his eyes and sighing loudly. When he began to speak, he did not look once at Denmark, keeping his eyes trained upon Norway's ruined face.

'Iceland had run off, and Nor- you know what he's like. Nothing except his brother worries him.' His mouth twisted a little at that last statement. 'So he panicked. He used his magic, trying to find him.' Sweden dared a glance at his brother's face. There was nothing there but blank stoniness, an unreadable expression that Denmark could bring out when he always seemed so open. 'And then- some men came.'

'What were they doing there?' said Denmark brusquely. He knew he sounded sharp. But he was past caring.

'I don't know, I never thought. But they saw Norway, and they took-'

'Stop. Sorry-' He forced himself up from the chair, dropping Norway's hand and going to stand beside the window. Outside, the city was well and truly alive, people from rich merchants to the lowliest urchin hurrying along its cobbled streets, the occasional carriage rolling by and birds filling the air with their morningsong. The thudding in Denmark's head lessened a little. He did not look back at Sweden, for fear his delicate composure would snap.

'I'm the oldest- no 'big brother' rubbish, I mean it. I've always protected you. Is that fair?' Sweden grunted his agreement.

'And-' Denmark took a shaky breath, smiling. 'Try to understand me, Sve. I'm angry. Furious. I could rip apart every one of those _skiderikker_ , and feel nothing. I want to know- what did you do for Norway, when those men took him? You're older than him, how did you protect him?' There was no need to look back- he could picture his brother's face, picture the wrinkles of indignation setting in, a change of expression so slight only those closest to him recognised it.

'I fought two of them single-handedly, whilst the other carried Norway off.' Sweden's voice rang cold and hard throughout the room. 'I wounded one, subdued the other. _Helveteseld_ , I got stabbed doing it! What more could I have done, Dan?'

'I don't know.' He turned around, hands raking through his hair distractedly. 'I don't know, Sve! Gone after the fucker who was actually holding your brother, maybe?' A half-laugh, half-shout burst from his lips.

'Is that what you would have done-'

'Fuck's sake, Sve-'

'You could never do anything wrong, could you? It was always you everyone adored, always _me_ who was shoved into a corner and forgotten!' They were both on their feet, Sweden's hands balled into fists by his sides and Denmark just restraining himself, clutching the bedframe like a lifeline.

'Because you never made an effort! The silent, scary warrior, who doesn't understand why no one likes him when he never says a fucking word!'

'My fault, this was?'

'Why not?' It was Sweden's turn to laugh. He hardly even smiled, and so the sound that came from him was cracked, like claps of thunder rolling over each other.

'Because it's always my fault, isn't it? I was the one that told you when Margaret died, so as a result you didn't speak to me for six days until you needed someone to buy your bloody ale! My people always rebelling, my government never listening to yours, but not a word of thanks when I stand by you through everything!'

'Then why don't you just leave?' Denmark seethed, slapping a hand against his thigh, definitely _not_ wishing it was Sweden's face. Sweden himself opened his mouth- then closed it again. He slumped back into his chair.

'I couldn't. Not now.' he muttered at last. The burning rage inside Denmark climbed into a towering inferno. Why couldn't Sweden just say what he meant? He kept everything in, guarded by that bloody stern face. _Perhaps Norway and I are more alike than we know._ For them, there was a mutual anger towards things, rage that was icy and sharp on one hand, fiery and consuming on the other- but similar. Not like Sweden, whose stoicism saw him through all.

'Good.' was all Denmark could find to say. He stared pointedly at Sweden, who took the hint and left. Norway had not stirred throughout their exchange, but now his eyes opened slowly, staring straight up at the ceiling.

'I... I can't-' Denmark was at his side instantly, holding a cup of water to those charred lips.

'Nor, it's all right. Here, have this.' His hand strayed to Norway's head- and curled away when he realised there was no hair there, none of the beautiful pale waves Denmark had loved to feel fall through his fingers like silk. Norway sipped for a second at the water. He blinked, turning his head from side to side.

'Den...'

'I'm here. It's all right, Nor.' Something blurred his eyesight; he dashed it away with a gloved hand.

'Den- I can't see. I can't see anything.' And those deep blue pools, darker and more mysterious than any fjord, any sea, wavered with uncertainty. They darted about. They flickered from sky to ground. But they did not see.

The next few weeks that went by in their household were strange, lined mainly with prolonged silences and monotone conversations. Norway was deemed to have healed enough after four days for Iceland to see him, and he forced a smile, gripping his brother's hand and looking at him with sightless eyes. Most nights Denmark would read to him, telling old stories from the blue book or making up his own, spinning out reels of nonsense in that smooth voice until Norway was finally lulled to sleep. Finland grew to think of that time as one of his worst. His fortress of Viborg on the eastern border was often besieged, either by Russian invaders or Swedish rebels. Either way, it took what little power he had to prevent the king from ordering him to lead an army up there.

'How is he?' he asked Denmark one overcast afternoon, leaning in the doorframe of Norway's room. Denmark gave him a smile- which meant a lot, given his mood these days.

'He says he can tell me and Iceland apart now, but the rest of us are too similar in height. But his sight's definitely coming back.' His grin widened, as the unmistakable laughter of Iceland burst from the next room.

'Good. That's good.' They stayed like that for a while, listening to Iceland's joyous exclamations and Norway's quieter replies. The two brothers had grown closer, if anything- unlike their older counterparts. Since their fight, Denmark and Sweden had exchanged barely a word, communicating via the others or with grunts and nods. If they had one shared trait, it was their mulishness. Matters were not helped by constant news of the Swedish rebels, who were either pillaging madmen or glorious saviours depending on who you listened to. It nevertheless did nothing to reconcile the two brothers. This was their first true dispute, the first time they had a reason to ignore each other, so they revelled in it, taking pride in affected silences and cutting remarks whilst their brothers sighed behind their backs.

'There was a letter from court this morning. From King Eric.' Denmark snorted, shaking his head at the ground.

'Stamped it himself, did he? Perhaps even graced us lowly peasants with a signature?'

'It's in his own hand,' said Finland lightly. 'And he orders you to appear before him within the week, to discuss the problem of the Hanseatic League.'

'For fuc- I mean, bloody hell,' said Denmark, kicking the door frustratedly. 'The bastard. Thinks he can pick us up and drop up again whenever he bloody well likes.' The Hanseatic League was a merchant guild established some three hundred years back, formed to protect the market towns and their business. They had not failed to provoke at least most of the countries they traded in, and now were a thorn in the side of the Danish kingdom. 'I'll kill them if that's what he wants. Gods know I haven't seen blood in far too long.' He unfolded his arms, eyes fixed on Finland. 'You'll come with me, won't you?' That threw him.

'Me? Surely, you'd rather...' But Finland's voice tailed off. Norway was still weak, Iceland a child. And Sweden- well, the obvious elimination of Sweden meant that Finland and Denmark would face the lion in his den together.

'You, Fin.' Denmark's smile was bright and sincere as ever. 'I mean it. I'll say goodbye to Nor, and then we'll be off.' He swept away into the room before Finland could argue. Finland let out one long breath, pressing a hand to his forehead. Maybe this was not such a coincidence after all. His country was Sweden's colony, granted what freedom it had by the relative power of the Swedish government. And if there was one thing that would irritate Sweden, it was Denmark exerting more control over him than he already had. _Oh, Den. You idiot. You happy, smiling idiot._ Finland looked back into Norway's room, hearing laughter. The phrase 'blinded by love' had never seemed more relevant. He watched for a moment, feeling uncomfortably voyeuristic. _No wonder Iceland hardly speaks to us. He has everything he needs in that room_. The boy loved all his older brothers, to speak the truth- and none more than the two who acted as parents to him.

Their presence irritated King Eric, Finland could tell. Age had not been kind to him. The shining, red face that could have been called healthy in his youth was now unpleasant, a jowled, frowning thing that was oddly comical. He had always been thin, but now that slenderness was simply scrawny, giving the king a sharp, emaciated look.

'Your Grace,' greeted Denmark cordially. 'It has been too long.' Only Finland caught the edge to his voice then.

'Indeed, indeed. But enough with trifles and titles.' The king chuckled at his own joke when no one else would, showing yellowed teeth. 'The Hanseatic League has declared an embargo upon all trade routes passing through Scandinavia. And your little friends the Swedes thought that was bad for business, so of course they revolted.' Something sank deep into the pit of Finland's stomach. Not only was enmity between Denmark and Sweden as people at its highest, the countries themselves could never stay peaceful for long.

'What would you have us do?'

'Ideally, suppress the Swedish before they can gather an army large enough to come and bother us.' Eric cast a dirty look about the room. His claw-like hands gripped the throne tightly, and Finland guessed that he had not held a sword for twenty years at least. 'But my dear council convinced me that the League should be _reasoned_ with. So it looks as though I need you again, _Kongeriget Danmark_.' Denmark's hands twisted together like a pair of snakes, but he kept his smile in place. _Only Margaret called him that_. Finland looked up at the man on the dais- truly _looked_ , tried to peer behind the eyes into his soul. Jealousy reigned supreme; jealousy of Margaret, long-dead though she might be, Denmark, for simply existing, and a hundred other petty complaints not worth noticing. Contempt filled Finland. _I do not know you_ , he thought with loathing, _and I like you even less_. What had happened to true strength? Where were people like good Queen Margaret, Cnut the Great his brothers spoke of so often and fondly? _Dead. Dead and gone._

'You will take a small party to the border, and meet with the envoy from the Holy Roman Empire. There, you will attempt to renegociate the trade deal.' Eric paused, smiling around the room with no warmth whatsoever. 'If you are not successful- well, I hear the French court is particularly beautiful.' And with that, they were dismissed.

'Gods have mercy,' swore Denmark once they were outside, slamming a fist into the wall. 'He's not right in the head. What was all that rubbish about not coming back if we fail? Who does he think he is?'

'The head of the Kalmar Union, and our sworn liege lord.' supplied Finland quietly. But saying it out loud only made the situation seem more dire. 'The least we can do is try to regain the trades. Who knows how long Eric will live? We can't last much longer without the harbours and markets bringing in money. So we convince the Hanseatic League, or starve waiting for a new king.'

'You're right. Damn him, you're right.'

As they rode south, Finland could not help but be worried. When dealing with reasonable people, Denmark was a fair negociator, his natural cheer making the opposition a little more lenient. These Hanseatic League lot were not likely to appeal to that. They were merchants, made rich upon their own account, and they knew full well they controlled the fates of several kingdoms. _We are at a disadvantage already._ It was just like the old days. None of this mattered- not the king's flag flying at the head of the party, nor the parchment stamped with the royal seal in their saddlebags. Whoever came victorious out of this meeting would do so because of wits. Titles meant little to rich men who did not have them. Finland's misery deepened the further away from the capital they rode, feeling the faint connection to his land waver. It had been weak ever since Sweden found him, but present enough that it did not matter. And now they were leaving Scandinavia altogether, which would mark the furthest Finland had ever been from his own country. His mouth set in a grim line. The next few days would be hard. But he was determined to see it through.

They reached the border on the fifth day. Finland could actually pinpoint the moment at which Denmark felt it- a familiar bond being replaced suddenly by something alien and unwelcome. He gasped, clutching at his throat, but rode on all the same. Finland did not bother to ask after him. Crossing borders was an ordeal they all had to endure. Europe here became brighter, a lush land of green fields and cloudless skies so unlike the near-permanent cold at home. Denmark's distaste was open on his face, scowl deepening at every picturesque village or holdfast on a hill.

'This is not how a country should be protected,' he muttered to Finland. 'There is no control here, no discipline. The common people might have a mob of twenty thousand at the city gates before anyone knew about it.'

'Your Viking side is showing, Dan.' replied Finland. He tried to avoid the question of mobs and rebellions. There were enough of those happening back home. But he supposed Denmark had a point- ruling the northern seas for six centuries gave you some idea of how a kingdom should be run, and even Finland, as a colony, could tell that this was not it. _The Holy Roman Empire is powerful, for now. But it will fall eventually._ The North was constantly at war, fighting and breaking off pieces and never holding its peace. But that phrase- 'The North'- was what remained. Not like the ever-changing southern kingdoms, lands that had entirely different names depending on which century you looked at.

They arrived in Prague after nearly two weeks' hard riding, to be greeted in the courtyard by a harried-looking messenger.

'Your presence is required at once inside, my lords.' he said, bowing deeply. Finland tried not to smile at 'lords', and followed him inside with Denmark. The place they were to meet the merchants in was certainly luxurious, floors lined with rich red carpets and expensive coloured glass in every window. If he had not known otherwise, Finland might have thought it was the palace of the Holy Roman Emperor himself. When they came into the assigned council room, there were four men already seated there. Finland took in three with barely a care- and just restrained his gasp at the last. For the last man, hands folded neatly on the table in front of him and a small smile on his lips, was another nation. He carried a pair of seeing glasses around his neck on a golden chain, which glittered against the rich purple of his waistcoat. The man's face was pale and noble, framed by a head of glossy brown hair through which he occasionally ran a tapered finger. His head jerked up the second Denmark and Finland entered. They exchanged knowing grins, holding their silence for the sake of the three other men.

'My name is Roderich Edelstein,' he said, shaking their hands in his own perfectly smooth one. 'I come upon the orders of His Grace Frederick III, Holy Roman Empire.'

'We, well-' Denmark exchanged a glance with Finland. These southerners appeared to be even more formal than rumour would have it. 'Mathias Andersen. From King Eric.'

'Tino Väinämöinen,' said Finland with a smile, reciting the name Sweden had given him decades ago.

'Thank you for coming,' said one of the Hanseatic League men. 'It must have been a long journey.'

'Well, yes-'

'Shall we begin?' The first man steepled his hands beneath his chin, taking them all in with hawkish eyes. 'I regret to say it, but your King Eric's problem with the Holstein counts has caused several...upsets amongst our guild.' Denmark frowned. He had written frequently to Eric, warning him against the counts, but to no avail. 'So of course you understand the trade embargo.'

'Understand, yes. Agree, less so. If you shun King Eric, you shun the whole of Scandinavia. An entire empire, fallen because of your petty worries.' _Careful_ , thought Finland. This was one of those times he wished he was not a mere colony. Then he would be permitted to step in and aid Denmark.

'Such is the way of the world. Empires rise and fall, kings conquer and are killed. The only thing that remains steady is gold.' said the second man politely.

'Then why did you agree to meet with us, if you will not discuss terms?' Finland resisted the urge to bury his head in his hands. Denmark had always been better at battles fought with blood and sword, not words.

'Your country is still of importance to the Hanseatic League,' said Roderich Edelstein. He did not look much of a warrior, with his manicured nails and unblemished skin, but there was a tact to his voice that softened Denmark's face a little. 'We would not wish to alienate Scandinavia entirely. If King Eric resolves his quarrel with the counts of Holstein, I am sure business can resume as usual.'

'However,' cut in the third man. _There is always a catch._ 'As assurance for King Eric's good behaviour, we require fifteen percent of Denmark's income per annum, lessening to ten percent after three years and then by two percent every year following. If he complies, that is.' Denmark's eyes grew wide. He took a fistful of hair and gripped it with a grimace, ruining Finland's feeble attempts to tame the ever-wild blond mess.

'I cannot accept those terms,' he whispered brokenly. 'The Swedish are already in open rebellion. To do this would be to break our union.'

'Then perhaps that is what you must do. I am sorry.' answered the first man, taking his turn to speak out of the three merchants.

'No. _No_ -'

'Excuse me,' said Finland with a smile, gripping Denmark's upper arm and steering him from the room. Once they were outside, he pressed him to the wall, hands on his shoulders.

' _Tanska_ , listen to me. You must accept that offer.' Denmark made noises of protest, but Finland shook his head. 'King Eric sent you to make an agreement. And you have one- yes, I know it's bullshit. But he can't argue with that. And neither can you return empty-handed.' He released Denmark, taking two steps back. 'Now go back in there, and smile, and _say yes_.'

'I am sorry for the interruption.' Denmark managed to say once they were back inside, with less sarcasm than Finland expected. 'I will accept your terms. King Eric will be _delighted_ \- ow, Fin- I mean, His Grace will be- er- pleased to know there is peace between us once more.'

'Excellent.' The three envoys smiled in unison, one proffering an embossed scroll. 'Now, if you would?' Denmark scrawled his human name onto the paper, shoving it back as though the thing was poisonous.

'I am glad we could agree,' said Roderich. 'Follow me, please.' They took their leave with more bows and forced smiles, enough courtesy that Denmark looked slightly ill when they at last made it outside. 'You may call me Austria.' said Roderich. 'Denmark, I take it? And-'

'Finland,' said the nation in question. 'Still a colony, I'm afraid.'

'My home is not far from here. We can walk, and I will have someone bring your things.' He set off down the street, burgundy cloak sweeping out behind him.

'So,' began Denmark. 'Why were you sent here? I was not aware your emperor had any problems with the League.' The corner of Austria's mouth twitched.

'I was not sent, I admit it. Let us say I was merely...curious, to meet with fellow nations.'

'You knew it would be us?'

'I had my suspicions.' Denmark and Finland grinned at one another. This Roderich Edelstein- Austria- was proving to be much more than met the eye.

As promised, the journey to his house was not a long one. Austria's hand was on the door when a shout rose up from around the corner, followed by exhilarated laughter and the thudding of footsteps. Fondness crossed Austria's face.

'Careful, Ludwig,' he called out when two people chasing each other came into view, one a fair amount taller than the other. Both were armoured, carrying wooden swords. 'You don't want to get hurt.' Excitement jolted down Finland's spine. These two were nations as well, he sensed it straight away. The smaller took off his helmet, to reveal a head of sweat-darkened yellow hair.

'I won't get hurt,' he mumbled. 'She's just better than me.'

'Who's this, then?' The second tossed their helmet carelessly to the ground- and a tumble of waist-length chestnut curls poured out.

'Damn it.' The woman scowled. 'I thought I tied it up. Anyway, Roddy, who's your lovely friends?' She winked at Denmark somewhat suggestively, who looked more taken aback than charmed. Austria's cheeks took on a pink tint.

'Don't call me Roddy. This is Denmark, and Finland. Allow me to introduce Hungary, my wif-'

'He's the wife, to be honest.' Hungary grinned, picking up her discarded helmet. 'Likes perfume in his bath, that sort of thing. And you can call me Eliza, Elizabeta if you're boring.'

'I call you Elizabeta.' muttered Austria. But Hungary had already forgotten him, looping her arms around Denmark and Finland.

'Welcome to the madhouse. Or Prague, I suppose. You don't need to worry about human names and that shit, we're all nations here. 'Cause Roddy can't afford any servants except-' Austria cleared his throat loudly.

'Elizabeta, please. Our guests are tired from riding all day.' _And the bloody Hanseatic League._ 'If you would show them to their rooms?' Hungary practically shoved them through the door, Ludwig following close behind. The house reflected Austria himself, elegant and tasteful, ignoring the light layer of dust scattered over everything. Hungary frowned.

'There's been no money for nearly thirty years. Not since Gilbert ran off- but that's another story. Go on, Lud, it's time for your piano lesson. If you can survive another minute with Roddy, that is.' She watched him go with a fond smile.

'Who- which country is he?' asked Finland, cringing inwardly. He did not think he had ever met someone so intimidating.

'Believe it or not, he's our very own Holy Roman Empire. Which can get a bit tiring, so we call him Ludwig.' Finland was indeed finding it hard to believe. An empire as huge as that one, carried on the shoulders of a young boy. _He looks hardly older than Iceland. Eleven at most._

'Here's your rooms,' said Hungary. Denmark nodded, saying thank you and opening the door. But Hungary's hand stopped his. 'I can share, if you'd like?' That devastating smile returned. 'Austria wouldn't mind.' Her hand crept up his arm, and Finland had to stifle a laugh at Denmark's horrified expression.

'No- no, thank you. Perhaps some other time.' he said, looking as though he regretted it instantly.

'Just let me know,' said Hungary, taking her leave with a wink and blown kiss.

'Shit. _Shit_.' said Denmark, leaning heavily against the wall.

'Liked her, did you?'

'If it wasn't for Norway...'

'Den!' They both laughed, for what felt like the first time in months.

The following week in Austria's house was happy for the most part, marred only by Denmark's anxiety when he sent the terms off to Eric. Hungary proved to be a formidable fighter, and accepted gladly when Denmark challenged her to a duel. That particular episode ended in Hungarian glee and Danish humiliation. Yet perhaps the best part was the music. When he was not hosting visitors or keeping Elizabeta out of trouble, Austria played the flute. He handled the polished wood with his customary care, coaxing sounds from it that were mysterious and beautiful in equal parts. Denmark, whose only experience of music was drinking songs and battle cries, was soon entranced, spending hours lying back in his chair and listening.

'Reminds me of Nor,' he said, when Finland asked what he was doing. Finland himself had other occupations. Young Ludwig was a serious boy, who practiced his swordfighting every morning and had better manners than most grown men. He was the perfect embodiment of an empire- obedient, rigid and fast to learn. But Finland had discovered his one weakness. The house's sole servant, a small boy with red-brown hair. He shared Denmark's new-found adoration for music, and was more often peering around the door of Austria's flute room than cleaning. And Ludwig was utterly captivated. He flushed bright red whenever the boy entered a room, stumbling over his words. _But he is a nation too_. Finland got the impression that this small child represented a country Austria had conquered, and brought him home afterwards. One night, when he, Denmark and Hungary had unstoppered a cask of fine French wine, Finland the courage to ask.

'Italy?' said Hungary, frowning. 'He's only the northern part. He was separated from his brother when we invaded his land.' She turned away, abashed.

'And Ludwig...' prompted Finland.

'Ludwig's completely infatuated. I've never seen him focus on one thing for so long, which is saying something.' She took a large gulp of wine. 'Poor boy. So silly, for all his talents.'

'Why?'

'He thinks our little Feli is a _girl_.'

'How in all-'

'Excuse me, my lady.' said an unfamiliar voice. It belonged to a messenger in a dusty tabard- a tabard emblazoned with the crest of the Kalmar Union.

'For me.' said Denmark. He accepted the letter and dismissed the servant. 'Well, here it is. Our fate, Fin.' He broke the wax and shook out the parchment. 'Noble King Eric...blah blah blah...three nations of Scandinavia...'stand together' bullshit...sends his _regrets?_ _Renegociate?_ ' The letter slipped from his hands and he sank into his chair, head in hands. 'He said the terms were unacceptable, Fin! What the fuck am I supposed to do now?' Finland did not answer. But inside, a dull sensation was spreading across his mind. _We cannot go back. There is nothing we can do._

'Oh, gods, Den.' He reached for his brother's hand, holding it tight.

'Wait.' Hungary said. 'This is going to sound stupid...'

Sweden had reached his breaking point. Every day, more news of the rebels poured in- of their bravery, their daring to stand up against the tyrant King Eric. 'Death to the Union' was supposedly their motto. A choice faced him. Denmark and Finland were gone, having spent nearly a month in the Holy Roman Empire. They would not be back in time to resolve this. But Norway, Iceland...Sweden buried his face in his hands. _I cannot leave them. But I have to._ It meant everything: for his pride as a nation, for the very future of Sweden. Join the rebels, and end Eric's tyranny. Stay here- and what?

'Any sign of the others?' Norway's voice was still hoarse from smoke. His hair was coming back, and the skin of his face was smooth and pale once more, but there was far worse underneath. He has done well to get through this without breaking down.

'None. Listen, Nor. My people are crying out for freedom. Denmark's not here to give it to them- so why can't I?'

'What are you saying?' whispered Norway.

'I'm going to leave. To join the resistance.' Saying the words gave him a powerful rush like no other- this was real, it would happen.

'Sve, you are my brother, so forgive me this: you _idiot_.'

'I forgive you.' He smiled crookedly.

'If you leave now, Scandinavia will be ruined. Denmark and Finland are gone. Who knows when they will return- if ever? The Holy Roman Emperor might have sliced them into a thousand pieces and scattered them to the winds. The least we can do is hold onto what's left of the Union.'

'Listen, Nor, I'm leaving-' The door crashed open. Their heads whipped around- to see the unexpected sight of Denmark and Finland.

'What the-'

'We had to come in a back way. The city's completely closed off.' explained Denmark, tossing his gloves onto a nearby chair. 'But listen.' Sweden moved closer despite himself. 'We're going to renounce Eric as monarch-'

'Are you mad-'

'Just _listen_. He does no harm locked up in his castle. The Hanseatic League will continue trading with us, except for in this city. Eric wastes away or surrenders- whatever happens, we save the Union. We'll find a better king- or queen, that's worked before. What do you think?' He was so arrogant, so full of himself that Sweden wanted to turn away in disgust. But, by some perversion of fate, he saw the merit in this madcap plan. Norway nodded. Finland grinned. And Sweden, (though he would regret it wildly in eighty years or so) gave in.

'All right.' So came the reunion of Scandinavia- at the cost of Denmark and Sweden's already tattered relationship.

 **Reviews? :D**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6, a day early! (yes I stayed up till 1:30am writing it, no I don't regret it :D). There's more angst in this one, and a load of fluff that came from nowhere (but mainly angst :D). I do not own Hetalia or these characters- enjoy, and review (pretty please?) Thank you so much to the people who have done so, it gives me the motivation to update more quickly! :D**

Since that day, a frail equilibrium had held the Kalmar Union together. Several times the rebels became so powerful that their little skirmishes developed into a full-blown war, one which Denmark at least spared Sweden the humiliation of fighting in. Some sort of unspoken agreement existed between them now- no matter how bad the fighting got, how close the rebellion came to succeeding, Sweden was not to leave. In return, Denmark mostly left him alone. He gave up any pretenses of friendship, never bothering to take Sweden with him when he was summoned by the king. Neither of them were truly happy with the arrangement- which Denmark supposed was a good thing. But he had other fixations now, something to occupy his time that was far more important than familial squabbles. After nearly eight decades, eight long decades of kings coming and going, each proving to be no more effective than the last, a ruler had come to the throne that even Queen Margaret would have approved of. His name was Christian, fitting for the new Lutheran faith sweeping Europe, and Denmark did not think he had met a man so harsh yet fair. He allowed not even the smallest misdeeds to go unpunished, and meted out justice to rich and poor alike. But his primary aim was to repair the Kalmar Union, by whatever means it took. And for that Denmark would give anything.

Now he stood at his king's side on the harbour docks, listening as he detailed their plans for the recapture of Sweden.

'The mercenaries will land at this port, where they are unlikely to be troubled. Then we follow once the town is secured, readying our forces to march on Uppsala. There, we will apprehend members of the self-appointed privy council and demand surrender. With their leaders fallen, the rebels will throw down their swords soon enough.' Denmark nodded. The plan, as with everything Christian did, was ruthless and logical.

'A sound strategy, Your Grace.' But the king must have heard the uncertainty in his voice.

'What is it? You may speak freely.' He did not say anything for a moment, weighing his words. But something was stabbing at Denmark, in that corner of his mind where his old Viking instincts resided, kept locked away until open battle called. The plan made perfect sense. Only...

'I feel as though there's a problem, Your Grace. Something we have forgotten, or overlooked.' Christian frowned, peering at his map with steel-grey eyes.

'No one will know we are coming. When the mercenaries take the town, I have ordered them to let no one in or out until the rest of our army can join up with them. The Swedish will not be prepared, I can assure you.' Denmark's qualms died upon his lips. He turned to lock eyes with the king, seeing only his usual unreadable expression. _A cryptic man. If I cannot figure out the problem in his plans, I cannot figure out him either._

'As you say, Your Grace.' He made his small bow, hating it as always, then boarded the ship and bolted the door of his cabin before any further doubts could make themselves known.

 _Perhaps Sweden has made me like this,_ thought Denmark that night, when he would rather have been asleep. _I can hardly trust him now, so I trust nothing at all._ His brother often plagued his thoughts these days. Acknowledging their differences had not made things better- it had done the exact opposite, driving a rift between them that was worlds away from the petty arguments of centuries ago. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, pressing long fingers to his temples. There was something about Sweden that made his head ache, filled him with a burning, blinding rage, pulled a red haze over everything. _I don't even know if I hate him._ Denmark laughed out loud- a dark, brusque chuckle made monstrous by darkness. Here he was, debating whether or not he hated his little brother, sailing towards the homeland of that little brother with the intent of conquering it... A sudden urge to scream piled up in his throat. Stumbling through the gloom, Denmark pushed his feet haphazardly into their boots and felt his way through the door. The whip-sharp air of outside cooled his head, freezing his rage. _Oh, but I have not forgotten you, Sverige._ He picked up a discarded flagon and hurled it, hard. The strain in Denmark's arm released that of his mind a little.

'Why,' he breathed to the wind. 'Why couldn't you just stay? Why weren't you happy?' He seized another flagon, a remnant from last night's drink-fest. That one made a lovely loud _clang_ as it collided with the deck. 'What did I do _wrong?_ ' And Denmark did scream then, beautiful and ragged, yelling his brother's name until it faded to a tortured whisper. 'The gods damn you to hell. Damn you. Damn you.' _I loved you, once_. Not even the thought of Norway settled Denmark's frenzied anger- only brought back memories of that unhappy house. He swiped at the air with one hand, cutting down a thousand imaginary enemies, all with Sweden's face, until at last Denmark collapsed to the floor, exhausted. _Tomorrow, I shall make my pain known. I will paint the world crimson with Swedish blood._ He fell asleep right there, under northern stars, stars that remained the same no matter which country they were viewed from.

Dawn found him drained and bitter. Denmark rose slowly, wincing as his legs unfolded from underneath him. Nobody was there but him and the fledgling morning, cold but bright, the whistling breeze that reminded him he had spent the night outside during a northern winter. His hands shook as he pulled on a red tunic over his thin shirt, then the thick bearskin mantle. There would be no need for armour until they landed in Sweden. He could not stop bloody shivering. _But is it from rage, or fear? Simply the cold?_ Denmark could not be sure. He tucked his knees to his chin and wrapped the dark fur more firmly about himself. _When battle comes, I will be warm. Warm with victory, the thrill of triumph._ Norway would want him like that when he returned- blood-splattered and glorious as always, smile wide. _He has not fought in a war for so long._ The mere thought of Norway, face set with determination and bow in hand, was enough to spread a flushed grin across Denmark's face. _We will win this. We will take back what is ours, and I'll laugh at Sweden if I want._ That set his blood boiling nicely enough.

After nearly a week's hard sailing, they landed in the small village of Öregrund. Denmark did not see the king at all that day, preoccupied as he was with ordering ships to port and assembling various sections of the army. The hired mercenaries sent word that they had taken the town bloodlessly, and so Denmark followed their plan, leading his Danish troops ashore to join up with the other forces. By nightfall, they were ready. And Sweden had never looked more vulnerable.

'Men of Denmark,' said Christian gravely. 'Men of Scotland, France, Germany.' The mercenaries took their acknowledgement with a series of nods. 'Tomorrow we reclaim what is rightfully ours. Tomorrow, the Kalmar Union will be whole again. Tomorrow, Sweden shall fall.'

'Sweden shall fall!' The cry was seized by thousands of throats, made to swell until it became a roar that lifted Denmark's heart, set him yelling amongst the others. 'Sweden shall fall!' _And you will know it, lillebror._ They were to march three hours before midnight, in order to reach Uppsala by noon the next day, so much of the day had been spent sharpening weapons and organising troops. But now they were ready. _Norge, wait for me._ Denmark reined in his horse to stand by the king, whose eyes fixated coldly upon the wasteland in front of them. Without a word, Christian set off, captains and generals scurrying to keep up. It had begun.

The first few hours passed with little incident. That night the sky was clear, with a full moon to light their way, shining down upon the army so they passed through bathed in silver mist. _A good omen_ , thought Denmark. It was always like this before a battle- the anticipation, the nervous excitement, drum-like heartbeats that quickened whenever he pictured the day to come. He supposed some things never changed. The army plodded on tirelessly, through snow-draped forests, over ice-coated hills, across Sweden's final defence- the land itself.

'Call a stop,' muttered King Christian to his herald.

'Halt!' called the herald in his booming voice. Denmark leaned back in the saddle, trying to ease out a knot in his back, when the king beckoned to him with one crooked finger.

'Half the scouts I sent out haven't returned.' he muttered. 'It's a perfectly clear night.' He did not need to finish.

'You think we're being watched.' Christian dipped his head once in affirmation.

'It's the Swedish. And if they know we're coming-

'How many men?' The king's face tightened momentarily with irritation, but he brushed it aside.

'Fifteen thousand, thereabouts. But they'll have more-'

'Not if we attack first.' Denmark returned his king's gaze with twice the coolness, mouth drawn into a thin line. 'They think they hold the advantage of surprise, so let them think that. Ready the troops. March towards wherever the dead scouts are, and as soon as we're attacked, we'll be ready for them. A little surprise of our own.' For a moment Christian simply stared, brows furrowing together in their customary frown. Then he shook his head, even smiling a little. It looked wrong, just as it looked wrong when Sweden- _no, don't think about him._

'It might just work.' he murmured.

'I assure you, Your Grace, it will. Something similar took place in the summer of 1247-'

'All right, all right. Seeing as it's your plan, you can put it into effect. Ride down the column, and tell the men what's happening.' Denmark did so, trotting past and spreading his message. Soon enough, the whole army was ready, weapons loose in their hands and armour secured. He wondered if Sweden had known about this- had known about his people's planned ambush, and chose to keep it from Denmark out of spite. _I would have done the same. Hell, it would have been my idea to even have an ambush._ He set off again without bothering to wait for the king's command, one hand on the hilt of his sword. The night painted everything silver, so he imagined it marred and bloody. _How they will smile when they see us. Their invaders, brought low by a sly plan. Only we know their plan now._ The rest of the army followed him into the gloom of the forest. Denmark fancied he heard someone draw a sharp breath, high in the trees. That was when the arrow missed his hand by a mere inch. He vaulted off his horse, drawing his sword as he did so. If there were archers, it would be safer not to have the horse crushing him if it was shot.

'With me,' called Denmark loudly. No point pretending; the Swedish were here all right, and ready to kill. The _hiss_ of fifteen thousand swords being unsheathed whistled through the trees, and he set off at a run, making for the clearing not two hundred yards ahead. Every so often, there was a surprised grunt, as a Swedish arrow found its mark, but Denmark grinned despite himself. He welcomed whatever was on the other side, whatever horrors conjured up to beat them back into the earth. _Come on then. Do your worst._ His head broke free of the trees, sword raised high...and then Denmark's foot skidded across ice, stretching his leg so he yelped in pain. 'Bastards,' he muttered under his breath, climbing back to his feet unsteadily. This had been why the Swedes waited- why they had not chosen to attack until now. Ice. _The land fights for you in this damned country._ The rest of the army surged past, unseeing. Some fell instantly. Others were luckier, and kept their footing just as the first wave of Swedish forces swept past.

Most were commonfolk, as evidenced by their patched clothes and varying weapons, but they had numbers on their side. Denmark cut one man down who carried a scythe, another with a good sword but no armour whatsoever, and a third who he suspected might have been a woman. _Her fault for joining them,_ he thought as he sent his steel swinging through yet another Swedish throat.

'Gustav! For Gustav!' some cried as they charged past. As he silenced them, Denmark wondered who this Gustav was. His own people had 'Danmark' or 'King Christian' as battle cries, and even some of the French mercenaries could be heard shouting 'Pour le dinamarca!'. _Probably some peasant who killed a knight with one shot, and now he's their hero._ Denmark resolved to put an end to such fantasies as soon as he could. He was a veritable demon, carving a path to victory with only his sword and sweet instinct, so honed over centuries of fighting he felt as though he could cavort through the masses laughing. _Norge would have loved this._ The thought of his face, pale and perfect, the burn scars littering his body that somehow made it more beautiful, all of that kept Denmark's exhilaration alive, gave him a purpose for this scarlet dance.

At one point he found himself beside the king. Christian fought brutally but well, putting that ugly grey broadsword of his to good use.

'How many more?' he called out between kills.

'A few hundred, I'd estimate. A lot deserted when the cavalry came in.'

'And our losses?'

'Minimal.' He shot his king a grin, leaping in front of him to block the blow of one particularly fierce-looking Swede. Denmark's face twisted in surprise when his next swordstroke was blocked. _I might have a real fight on my hands. About time too._ He sprang forth to meet his foe, raining slashes down on him that were all parried or deflected. 'Come on then, bastard.' That wiped away the Swede's smile. And then it was his turn to attack, unleashing a series of blows so ferocious Denmark did not have time to smile and taunt him between each one. 'You're good,' he said, taking a few paces back as his enemy did likewise. Now came the true battle- a battle of minds. Whoever challenged next, whoever broke the eye contact, whoever said another word, all could make or break a fight. And though appearances suggested otherwise, Denmark was far more experienced in such situations. He kept his eyes locked on the opponent's face as he ran back in, one hand on his sword. The other whipped from his belt and into Swede's neck before another blow could be exchanged. Denmark let him fall to the ground. Then he reached down, and reclaimed his dagger.

'He must have been the commander,' said Christian, breathing quick and ragged. 'Well done.' And indeed, several of the less peasant-looking Swedes were bending over the body, hoisting it onto their shoulders and moving away after a moment. Some glanced over at the Danish king, no doubt wondering if they could end the war with a single strike. Then they saw Denmark- blood-soaked, grinning manically, and decided to live for now. Long-awaited warmth filled him. _We did it._

The battle on the ice hindered their progress by a day or so as the army rebanded, but soon they were assembled and ready to march, albeit decreased in number somewhat. Uppsala came into view after barely nine hours. It was large enough as cities went, guarded by one thick curtain wall, above which various turrets and towers peered. But that stone looked solid. Denmark did not know if he could face a long siege, especially after the battle. His adrenaline rush had not lasted long once it was over, and subsequently he slept for ten hours that night. Now most of the soldiers were tired, eager to savour their victory soon. _We'll be here for fifty years if Sweden's city is as obsinate as him_. But clearly the gods were in a good mood, as soon after their arrival a messenger on a rangy-looking mount trotted through the gates.

'You are invited to discuss terms with the privy council, Your Grace. Your men may enter the city, on the condition they do not cause further violence.' There was a slight there in his words, however small it might have been. _They are not so defeated yet._ The king nodded, gesturing for Denmark to follow him. They left the rest of the army setting up camp beside the gates, exchanging worn saddles for padded seats in a Swedish castle.

'I must say, we did not expect to see you here.' the Chancellor greeted them.

'A clever ploy,' replied the king shortly. 'Now, I was told you wish to surrender?'

'Surrender? Oh, no. I believe my messenger used the phrase 'discuss terms'. That is what you are here to do, Your Grace.' Christian was irritated already, Denmark could see. He prayed that the king would keep his anger locked away.

'Very well. Let us- _discuss terms._ Mine are as follows. This country renounces any leaders it has elected, returning to the rule of the Danish crown. The rebels, if they cooperate, will be allowed to return to their homes and ordinary lives. The leaders will be brought to Copenhagen to be judged, and are permitted to spend the rest of their days as honoured guests of my country if their crimes are not serious.' Prisoners, he meant. But any fool could see that.

'And if their crimes are deemed serious?' inquired the Chancellor politely. Christian's smile was grim.

'Then they will suffer the fate that all traitors do, Lord Chancellor.' Denmark's hands clenched into fists as the council members dissolved into quiet talk amongst themselves, speaking Swedish so their visitors would not understand. It was close to Danish, but faint, and with enough of an accent that Denmark had to strain his ears to pick up every word. From what he gathered, they knew that to prolong the fighting was pointless, and rejoining the Kalmar Union the best option currently. But, as he suspected beforehand, they were not willing to cede control entirely.

'The Kingdom of Sweden shall once again be part of the Kalmar Union,' said a councillor at last. The king let out a small breath. 'But we wish you to know that our traditions are important to us, just as brokering a peace is important to you. Therefore, we shall be ruled under Swedish laws and customs, and you shall pay a full indemnity to compensate for past conflicts between our two countries.' He did not move a muscle once he was done- simply blinked and smiled, staring at the king with strangely lifeless eyes.

'Your Grace, if you will allow me,' Denmark forced the formalities through his teeth. Christian waved a hand for him to continue. 'I am afraid that we cannot pay your indemnity. These wars have depleted our resources somewhat, and it would not be just to take even more from us when winter is coming. And, I would like to add-' He gripped the sides of his chair to cool the sudden anger- '-the fault does not lie solely with Denmark. Sweden partook in those wars as well.' Denmark finished his little speech with a nod of the head, point made. _Now all we can do is fight it out._

'I am afraid some compensation must be given,' was all the Chancellor said.

In the end it dragged on for two more months, two agonisingly boring months of being cooped up in castles, pretending to be polite. Then there were several long-winded letters from the Danish privy council, who did not deign to send out an envoy, but preferred to communicate via ink and paper. But at last the terms had been agreed. Sweden's government had taken everything they could from the circumstances, knowing that they held control. Denmark was left somewhat impoverished- but the Kalmar Union was whole once again. _We can make money, expand trade. But it's the unions that last._ Even after Sweden's return, there were still several patches of the rebellion yet to be extinguished. It transpired that the battle commander Denmark killed in the ice battle had been the Swedish regent, and now his widow controlled a new peasant army in Stockholm. They were defeated in the first attempt to quash them, and it was only after a second battle outside of Uppsala that the widow finally surrendered. That particular fight was remembered as being one of the most bloody of the whole invasion. Denmark took an arrow to the shoulder then, and was still recovering when the king came to him.

'I want you to go back to Copenhagen,' said Christian, pacing up and down in front of Denmark's chair. 'They're crowning me in ten days' time. You've played your part, and you played it bloody well.'

'But, Your Grace, it is tradition-'

'Not in the eyes of the world. Hell, how many people in this city know you exist?'

'Two,' mumbled Denmark, after a very brief count.

'Precisely. You have attended the coronations of many kings, and I have no doubt you'll attend many more. This is one from dozens.' For once, Denmark did not try to argue back. He had spent nearly a whole year in this damned country, writing formal messages, sitting through hours of council sessions, riding back and forth to make this lord and that see sense. Maybe his king was right. Maybe it was time to leave. 'Go home.' said the king. 'Don't come back to court until you want to.' He gave one of his sharp nods, the only gesture of gratitude Denmark was likely to get, then exited the room. _Go home_. He pictured Norway's face, Iceland's face, finding them crystal-clear in his mind despite all the time that had passed. Denmark grinned slowly. _All right_ , he thought. _I'll go back._ It took considerable effort for that grin not to widen when he imagined his own glorious return, laden with stories of Sweden's defeat and surrender. Sweden the man would be humiliated enough, not to mention his entire land.

The journey to Copenhagen went by in a quick succession of wind-whipped days, mainly due to the fact that Denmark spent most of it asleep. He had been given a herbal remedy to dull the pain in his shoulder, which also made him incredibly drowsy. So it was a tired but eager Denmark that disembarked the ship, stepping down onto the familiar cobbled pathways of the harbour.

'Dan! Dan!' called a familiar voice. He wheeled about, beaming, and was nearly knocked off his feet by something crashing into his torso. The 'something' was a someone, of course- Iceland. Denmark laughed, sweeping the boy up in his good arm to get a proper look at him.

'You've grown!' Iceland grinned, and anyone looking at them would have noticed that it was an uncanny reflection of Denmark's own smile. He was dressed immaculately in deep blues and blacks- Norway's work, no doubt- run through with a silver thread that matched his hair. Denmark ran a hand through the soft pale down, wrinkling his nose at the strange smell that lingered in it.

'Island, is that _perfume?_ ' Iceland screwed up his face in disgust and snaked one arms around Denmark's neck.

'Storebror put it on me. Said I smelt like a stable.' Denmark laughed again, holding him close.

'I missed you,' he muttered over Iceland's small shoulder.

'I missed you too, Dan.' He closed his eyes, and tried to internalise the moment- Iceland, soft and warm in his arms, stood by the docks of his home in the aftermath of a great victory.

'Dan...' A small hand prodded at his back. Denmark opened his eyes. And he had to blink several times. There was the face that haunted his dreams each lonely night in Sweden- only better, here, _real_.

'Norge,' he whispered. 'Oh, Norge.' Norway looked as though he was trying to hold back a smile, but Denmark never found out if he succeeded, for the next second they were all huddled as one, arms intertwined, skin against skin, together again at last.

'Idiot,' said Norway when they broke apart, with hardly enough malice to frighten a kitten. 'And your king too, for not taking us all. Have you any idea how _boring_ it gets? Watching Sweden's sour face across the table at every morning, Finland always trying to cheer him up. Even Iceland got bored of the sea children story.'

'I did, honest,' said Iceland, nodding solemnly.

'I even went to France for a couple of weeks, and joined one of his stupid wars against England. And for all that, I got two kills, Den! _Two!_ ' Denmark smiled at Norway's indignation, clasping their hands together. 'I imagine you got a lot more back in Sweden.'

'You wouldn't believe how many.'

'You'll just make it up anyway.'

'True.'

'Come on!' piped up Iceland, pausing the reunion for a moment. 'It's cold out here! And I want to show you my new horse, Dan! And Noregur let me write in your blue history book! And they've started making these amazing pastries...'

'Sounds like a lot happened while I was away,' murmured Denmark, watching as Iceland skipped off happily down the dockside. Norway squeezed his hand.

'You'll see when we get back. The most exciting thing's probably the new carpet in the library.' Denmark pressed a hand to his heart in affected horror.

'How could you?' Norway rolled his eyes, and began to walk after Iceland.

'I'm sure you're dying to see the others,' he called over his shoulder. Denmark's mouth twisted wryly.

'If only,' he said, and followed them with new-found joy in his heart.

They ate together in the big dining room that night, after relentless begging from Finland. He had greeted Denmark with a hug and a hundred questions, as usual, then instantly launched into his 'Reconcile Ruotsi and Tanska' plan, which was somehow still in progress after decades that proved it did not work.

'At least _try_ to be civil with him, Den.' Finland said. 'You'll both feel better for it. Denmark did not doubt that Sweden had received similar treatment earlier that day, but nothing could make him sympathise with his brother now. Finland ushered them all into seats when they arrived, fussing and fluttering over various problems. The arrangement had obviously been planned with care. Denmark was on the end, Iceland next to him, with Norway opposite, Finland next to him, then Sweden. _We are as far away from each other as etiquette will allow_. It did not stop him from wanting to smash the expensive cut-glasses from Italy over Sweden's head, however. _One night. I can do this._ He made conversation with Iceland mostly, discussing the latter's new horse and how Storebror never let him ride in the woods alone in case he fell and broke his neck. Norway, meanwhile, was speaking to Finland on the situation of France's war. He and England were constantly at each other's throats, yet it was a widespread rumour across Europe that they were secret lovers. Finland kept making not-so-subtle attempts to drag Sweden into their discussion. Sweden did not answer, instead slicing at his food mechanically and swallowing as though it was a chore. He rose from the table and made to leave as soon as he was done, muttering a quiet 'Good night.' And then Denmark had to ruin it. Of course he did.

'So, did I ever tell you what happened when I landed in Öregrund?' Sweden stopped in his tracks by the door, shoulders tightening. Norway and Finland did not respond, and at first Denmark felt a little ashamed. He had assumed Sweden would be gone by the time he began the story. But Iceland- innocent little Iceland, who did not know it was his fault- set the next stage in motion.

'What happened, Dan? Was there a battle?'

'There was, but that came later.' _Go, Sve. Just get out so I can tell my story_. Sweden's fingers closed upon the doorhandle.

'Did you kill anyone?'

'Well, there was this one man.' _It's your own fault if you stay. If you don't want to hear it, then leave._ 'The army we fought was mostly commoners, though their leader was a nobleman. The regent, in fact. He was about to kill the king when I-'

'Shut up.' Sweden's voice trembled with anger. 'Please. Be quiet.' But Denmark had reached his breaking point in record time.

'You didn't have to listen, Sve. Could have gone and sulked in your room like I know you wanted to.'

'You killed my people!' Denmark raised one eyebrow.

'My king commanded me to. What else could I do but obey? And if you don't like it, lillebror-'

'Don't call me _lillebror!_ ' He turned about so quickly Denmark was taken aback, their faces close- Sweden's flushed with anger, Denmark's composed but beginning to smoke under the surface. _Since when was Sverige taller than me?_

'And why not?' He heard Norway's hissed 'idiot' from behind him, but it was too late now. 'Still bitter that I'm the smaller nation, yet your conqueror? That only goes to show I know what to do with _my_ power. At least I'm not like-' Dodging the slap was easy. Holding back his own proved to be much harder. Sweden staggered backwards, one hand clutching his jaw, which was slowly reddening. His eyes smouldered through Denmark. Then he was gone, without another word. Denmark clenched the guilty fist. He knew what he had done was wrong. Cruel, even. _But it felt good._ A gasp burst out of him at that- what small, mean part of his mind had said that? And how dare it be right?

'Storebror...' His gaze snapped over to Iceland. He was cowering in Norway's arms, violet eyes huge and tear-filled, staring up at Denmark. _Oh, gods._ Was that _fear_ on his little brother's face? _He cannot be afraid of me. Please. Fool, idiot._ As soon as it had come, his rage melted away, softened by Iceland's tears.

'Ice-' choked Denmark, surprised to find his voice tremulous. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry.' A thousand better words, more sincere apologies, all of them stayed stuck in his mind, until all he could say was those two empty words- 'I'm sorry.' He dropped to his knees, face in hands. _This is just like that first night on the boat_. Denmark wanted to scream as he had done then, cry out his anger and sorrow to something bigger, do anything but let the pressure in his chest stay any longer. 'I'm sorry...' He knew he was forgiven when Iceland ran into his arms. And he knew this was far from over when he looked at Norway, and saw something unfathomable in those ocean eyes.

'You're a first-class imbecile. You do know that, right?'

'Yes.' muttered Denmark dully.

'Not even back for a full day, and already you've punched Sweden and made Iceland cry. All done.' Norway took his hands off Denmark's wounded shoulder, which he had been wrapping a fresh bandage around. Denmark pulled his shirt back on, wincing.

'I do regret it, you know.'

'As I would hope.'

'It's hard to describe, Nor...one moment, I'm with you and Iceland, happy as anything. But then he...he just _stands_ there. And suddenly I want to punch someone, or break something. It doesn't even have to be him. I just need to get rid of the pressure...' Norway let out a long breath as he threw himself down across the bed. The sight of him lying there, shirt collar tantalizingly open, hair mussed and eyes heavy, was enough to make Denmark's breath catch in his throat. He inhaled deeply. 'I really need you as well, Norge. You just- make things more bearable. I don't know why. But I feel calmer whenever you're there. Iceland too, Finland to a lesser extent.'

'And yet we didn't have any effect on you tonight.'

'Nothing has any effect when _he's_ there.' Norway's hands tugged at his arms, until they were lying side by side on top of the covers, heads just touching.

'Things like tonight, Danmark...' Norway reached out and took his hand. 'They make this-' He lifted their clasped hands aloft- '-difficult. They make me doubt my decisions.'

'What are you saying?' Denmark felt his heart beginning to race. _He is all that's holding me together now. Oh gods, he can't-_ 'You aren't going to-'

'That's what I mean. I could never change my mind now, not after so long. Which is why I wonder if I should regret the choice I made.'

'And what was that choice?' he whispered, though the answer was clear as day.

'You, idiot. Though I must have been drunk at the time.' Norway sat up, serious all of a sudden. 'But you and Sve- you need to find a way to make it work. One day, Iceland won't forgive you so easily. This isn't just us at stake as people anymore, Den- our entire nations will be in danger if you don't resolve things soon.' He pressed a soft kiss to Denmark's forehead, then took his leave, that fresh smell of pine needles lingering slightly. _Our entire nations will be in danger._ Denmark pulled the blanket over himself, cold now Norway was gone. He stared straight up at the ceiling. Something Harald Bluetooth had once said came to him, so sudden and clear it seemed to be fate. _There's two ways to get rid of your enemy- kill him, or make him submit. Either way, you won't have an enemy afterwards_. Queen Margaret would have been displeased at the use of 'him', but it was the message that remained. _Kill, or submit._ An obvious choice. But like Norway said, sometimes you came to regret choices. Denmark only hoped he had made the right one now.

The letter in Sweden's hand was blurred with tears. _One hundred killed,_ it read, _under the orders of King Christian_. _Drowned and decapitated. Burn this._ It was signed by the Chancellor of his privy council, the man who had fought to hard to keep their country's freedom. Sweden had been corresponding with him in secret since before Denmark left, often sending supplies and money with his letters. _My own small way of supporting the people._ But now he supposed the rebellion was truly over. No one left to lead troops into battle, no one to rule, no one- _except Gustav._ His father had been one of those murdered in the king's recent massacre. Both were devoted members of the rebellion- and now Gustav's life meant more than it ever had. _He could be the one. The leader we need._ Sweden dashed away his tears with one hand, and reached for fresh ink and parchment with the other. The letter he penned was fervent, pleading, but he knew it rang true. _Have the people declare you king,_ he wrote. _Shatter this pointless peace before it traps us all._ There was nothing more that needed to be said. He had a trusted servant take it down to the docks, where the supply ship waited. _And when this is all over, I will join you_. But there was still one unresolved quarrel yet.

He found Denmark sat by the fire with Finland, playing cards. Sweden cleared his throat, and tried not to grimace when his brother turned around with his customary arrogant stare.

'Denmark,' he managed to force out. 'What do you know about this?' He held out the letter, the Chancellor's signature and his own name at the top carefully torn away. Denmark scanned it, bemused.

'Nothing,' he said after a moment. 'Why do you ask?' Everything about it irked him- Denmark not even acknowledging what was written there, the stupid faked innocence in his eyes- he was smiling, damn him.

'Your king gave the order. King Christian. The Stockholm Bloodbath, they're calling it.'

' _Our_ king, lillebror.' He eyed Sweden coolly. 'And I don't care what they're calling it. Those men were traitors. They threatened to break up this happy union of ours, so in my eyes they deserved to die.' He turned away, back to Finland and the card game. Sweden seized his arm. _You will not get away with this. I swear it._ 'Let go of me.'

'No. Not until you give me a reason.' Denmark laughed, spreading his hands wide.

'I'll say it a thousand times if you like- _I never knew._ '

 _'Liar.'_

'Fucking hell, Sve, what do you want me to do? Confess that I murdered the whole miserable lot myself? Almost wish I had-' Sweden was faster with his slap this time. It struck Denmark right across the face before he knew what was happening. Only Denmark fought back, lashing out with frenzied fists, both of them scratching and punching and kicking until blood streamed from various cuts, and their eyes burned with fury.

'Why?' Sweden was yelling brokenly. ' _Why_ , Den? You're my brother, hell-'

' _I didn't touch your fucking people_! No one told me! I was sent home nearly two weeks ago!' There was sense in that, admittedly- but more sense in the blows, hitting Denmark again and again so he stumbled against the wall.

'Ruotsi, no!' cried Finland. He leapt to his feet, no doubt intending to break up their fight, but Denmark shoved him roughly.

'Stay out of this, Finland.' he hissed. 'I'll punch the bastard if I want.' Finland's eyes narrowed. Sweden struck while Denmark was distracted, driving a crushing blow into his face that forced him to one knee. For a moment he just stared at his brother's defeated form. But faces entered his head- the faces of the murdered. _I knew those people. Even if they never knew me._ A sob choked his throat, and he lashed out blindly, foot connecting with Denmark's side.

'Fuck, Sve-' Another kick silenced him. He drew back his foot once more-

' _Stop!_ ' Finland practically ran at Sweden, pinning his arms to his sides. 'You'll kill him.' Sweden eyed his brother coldly. Denmark was curled into a ball, clutching at his middle tightly and blood streaking his face. The sight would evoke pity in anyone else. But all Sweden saw was justice.

'A pity he can't die.' he remarked, stepping over Denmark's stationary form. _Justice. Justice for my people._ A small smile graced his lips as he closed the door, greatest rival brought to his knees at last. _Finally_.

 **I'm sorry I'm sorry I love Sweden but he just got angry! Until next time- or in other words, the angst showdown :D**


	7. Chapter 7

**Aah I'm so sorry this is late and it's really short! But Chapter 7 is here, try to enjoy! :D It's the promised angsty thingy but I don't even know if it's sad- also please review? The comments so far have been really nice, thank you! :D**

The fights between Denmark and Sweden, by some twist of fate, brought about an unsteady truce in the house. They had both won one, both lost one, and now circled each other like crows on a battlefield, waiting to see who would make the next move. But it only served to irritate the rest of their family. Finland's colonial status naturally inclined him towards supporting Sweden, and he did just that, rebuffing Denmark's half-hearted attempts to rekindle their friendship. It was more complicated for Norway. He was not a colony, but a country of his own, and he did not deny that watching Sweden's desperate struggle for freedom had planted doubt deep within him. _Though there is far more to it than that_ , he knew. His people were more accepting of Danish rule, therefore having no reasons to rebel, and Norway himself was bound to the union by much more than a signed parchment. _The voice that says good morning and good night every day, the face that smiles no matter what, the person I have come to love._ And it tore him apart, truly. He used to think nothing could be simpler than unconditional love. _Oh, how wrong I was._

Norway was putting his brother to bed one frigid spring evening, when he felt Iceland's arms slide around him. He softened a little. These past few weeks Denmark had not been able to tell him a story like usual, weighed down by meetings and all the other pressures of being a powerful nation, and so Iceland had turned to the next best option- his brother.

'What is it, Island?' He must have heard the slight edge to Norway's voice, for he let his arms slide away.

'Will they shout again tonight?' Norway stiffened. He put on his polished pretend-smile, and turned around so he was sat beside Iceland on the bed. Though the fights had lessened, the arguments themselves had not. Sometimes it carried on until past midnight. Norway would sit in the library with a book, listening to every word and locking it away in some dark part of his mind.

'I don't know,' he said, lying through his teeth. But Iceland was not so naÏve as that, it would seem.

'They will,' he said, rubbing at one eye with a small fist. 'Noregur- why doesn't Sví just go?' Icy fingers crept up Norway's spine. He gripped the blanket tightly, holding on until the scream in his throat died away.

'What do you mean?'

'Last night, when they were shouting, Dan told him to go. And he didn't say anything after that, so I thought he might have.'

'Listen, Island.' said Norway gently. He reached for Iceland's little hand and held it between both of his own. 'Denmark- he often says things he doesn't mean. He just gets angry. Sweden is not going anywhere.' _For now._ The irony was so bitter Norway almost laughed. _Here I am, defending one loose-tongued fool for not thinking before he speaks, then doing just the same and lying._ Sweden's time here would not last much longer, he knew for sure. He swallowed, attempting to soften the blow for Iceland. 'And if he does, Emil, then you will be good, won't you?' Iceland just stared up at him, with eyes that were too knowing for a boy his age.

'You only call me that when you're being serious,' he mumbled.

'Call you what?'

'Emil. It's not my name. Other people call me it, but they don't know my real name, so that's all right. But you know, Nor.'

'Iceland. _Island_.' Norway said quietly. Iceland nodded. They sat in silence for a while longer. Norway's heart ached, with fierce love for this small, solemn brother of his, and a sorrow that he was already wise to the evils of the world. _I would have liked to protect him. Just for a little while longer._

'Storebror, is Dan going to die?' That dashed all the nostalgic thoughts from his head instantly.

'Island, why would you say something like that?' Iceland's eyes flickered to the door.

'I wanted to ask if we could go riding the other day, so I went to his room, but when I got there he was just stood by the door, and his hands were all covered in blood.'

'Lillebror...'

'I think he was punching it, or something. And another time I went in the library, and he was just sat on a chair, with his knife out. He was just _staring_ at it, Noregur. It frightened me.' He said the last part a little abashedly. Norway pulled him close, burying his face in the pale hair so it would soak up his tears.

'Island, I can promise you this. Denmark is not going to die.' _I won't let him_ , he added. 'But you have to let me go and find him now. Understand?' Iceland nodded, worming out of his grip and under the covers. His own face was blotchy as well.

'Góða nótt, storebror.'

'God natt, lillebror.' Norway pressed a kiss to his forehead, and took the lantern from the bedside table. His legs buckled as soon as he stepped out of the door. He had not been entirely truthful with Iceland. Denmark could not die, no matter how many times he stabbed or strangled or drowned himself. But the fact he wanted to was just as bad. For the first time since this whole mess had come about, Norway felt hatred curl up in him at the thought of Sweden. _I will not let you destroy him._

The cool dockside air whistled sweetly about Sweden's head, salting his tongue and loosening his limbs. He had always felt more alive at night, and never more so than now, with a ship full of gold bound for his homeland. _It is going to a good cause. Our freedom._ King Christian's peace might have lasted, were it not for the Stockholm Bloodbath. _He had control over the people, whether they willed it or not, then tossed away their respect like it was nothing._ He had always seemed a prudent, able ruler on the few occasions Sweden spoke to him. Not the sort of man to butcher nearly a hundred others in public. He nodded to the ship's captain, who raised a hand in return and cast off the ropes. Relief swept over Sweden. No one else knew of his little nighttime jaunts on the jetty, but fear hung about him all the same. Denmark had people watching him, he knew. It was only safe to slip out in the darkest hours of the morning, when everyone else was asleep. _Yet it is hardly a surprise. I would set my own people on him if I had that sort of power._ But he did not, so he lived in constant terror of discovery, only tempered by the thrill of aiding his people undercover, in the capital city of his greatest rival.

Sweden came back inside via his usual entrance- the garden door, always unlocked but well hidden. This place was one of the few untouched by Denmark, who loved flowers and was completely clueless about their cultivation. But Sweden knew it like he knew his own mind. He had come to cherish the quiet company of trees and plants, took pleasure in taking handfuls of soil and letting it spill through his fingers. There was a rich, green aroma in the air that calmed him like nothing else. Now he walked past his neat flowerbeds, admiring the bright little shoots that poked up from beneath the ground. It was stiflingly warm inside. He crept up the stairs, mud-caked boots in hand- and collided with someone coming down.

'Sorry,' he mumbled, praying it was not one of Denmark's spies. But a hand grabbed his arm, wrenching him around into the watery light cast from the landing window.

'Ruotsi, it's me.' Finland's face came into view, smiling. 'What on earth are you doing up at this time of night?' He opened his mouth- then closed it again. _I don't even know if I can trust him. That's how far this has come._

'Couldn't sleep.' he said at last.

'We both know that's a lie, Ber.' Sweden sighed. Finland was so etheral, so otherworldly in this light, his golden hair taking on a silver glow and a misty light entering his violet eyes. He could not lie to this fairy-like creature any longer.

'I was down at the docks.' he muttered, shamefaced.

'Doing _what?_ It must be freezing out there!' Sweden hesitated. He dared to take Finland's hand, and that made him braver.

'I've been sending supplies to the rebellion. Money, food, weapons, things like that.' His reaction was hardly surprising- a gasp, muffled by one hand.

'You do know how dangerous that is?'

'Yes.'

'And you know what Denmark would do if he found out?'

'I'd rather not imagine.' Finland laughed suddenly, a bright, unexpected tinkle of sound.

'You utter fool. You brave, brave man. What are you going to do now, Ber?' He sat down on the top step, pulling Sweden with him. _If I dared to hope for one second..._

'What do you mean?'

'Denmark'll find out. Or your rebellion will succeed, something like that. Either way, he won't even let you out of the house afterwards.' He stared down at Finland, whose smile was beguiling with none of the guile, eyes angelic.

'You think I should leave?'

'That's what I would do.' Sweden focused on their still-clasped hands, small and deft palmed in big and rough. _But it feels right._ He pictured his own exit- would it be swift and silent, in the night with no disturbance? Or should he go right to Denmark and tell him the truth? Sweden wondered which would anger his brother less.

'Then we should go tonight.' It was difficult to decide which he liked more- the thought of being free at last, or Finland's face at the word 'we'.

'Both of us?'

'Why not? On a political note, you're my colony, and it's the law.' He nudged Finland playfully, smiling. 'And on a personal note...'

'Yes, I understand, Ruotsi. I'll go and get my things.' It was so sudden, so easy, that Sweden found himself unable to move for a moment. He was going to escape. The endless days of oppression, of Denmark yelling and slamming doors, Norway's silent judgement and his own crushing regret, all would be swept away by one glorious night. Sweden rose to his feet on shaking legs. His hands clenched into tight fists. _I will not let anything stop me._

Finland could not keep the smile from his face as he threw clothes into a bag, grabbing all manner of useless objects from his bedside table and flinging them in too. _We're going to be free._ He was Sweden's colony- Sweden's misery had become his own these past few weeks. But now fate had given them a chance, and Finland planned to seize it with both hands. He tightened the strap on his bag, slid into his sturdiest winter boots, and flung on a cloak. He blew out the candle one last time. He shut the bedroom door. Finland let a hand trail along the thick stone wall, riddled with memories. That dent in the wood marked where Iceland had fallen down the stairs and hit his head; here, a series of small scratches, reminded him of the stray cat Denmark had brought in before a servant chased it away. And the library- home of a thousand stories murmured quietly over aquavit, the place where he had learnt Sweden's language and held it deep within his heart. Denmark's room was the door opposite. _And he is in there now, plagued by the nightmares that are just as present in the daytime._ A fledgling feeling of pity built up in him. He would miss his brother, the oldest, their protector, who could not even protect himself from his own mind.

Sweden met him at the foot of the stairs. He carried a bag of his own, as well as a sword sheathed at his belt.

'Good thinking,' called out Finland. He had only a small dagger, but it worked well enough if you knew how to use it. _Which I do_. Even a knife was more formidable than a sword if its bearer was fast and fleet-footed. 'Said your goodbyes?' Sweden's mouth twisted wryly. 'Told the dog. Or at least, I thought it. Didn't want barking to wake anyone up. You?' Finland shrugged.

'The library, that wall where Iceland hit his head. Just memories, really.' _And Denmark. I said goodbye to him, whether I meant it or not._ Sweden nodded.

'There's been some good ones, I'll give you that.' He hesitated, casting a look about himself. Finland knew without looking that his eyes had gone to the dark patch on the rug, where Denmark had lain bleeding as a result of his brother's fists. _Does he regret it? Perhaps it was only justice, like he said._

'Come on,' said Finland softly. 'There's nothing you can do now.' They walked to the door- slowly, for this was a momentous occasion. Sweden reached into his bag and took something out.

'I wanted to leave this right here,' He pointed to a spot just before the door.

'Ruotsi...' Finland drew in a sharp breath. Sweden held the old blue book: the one in which his own looping copperplate, Denmark's elegant letters, Norway's dense hand, detailed centuries of history. Leaving it there would be to make a statement of the boldest kind. _No more history. We are done with you._ 'Do it.' His hand had just released the worn leather when a voice called out.

'That's mine.' Finland's blood ran cold. He turned about- dreading, pleading, hoping. _Please. Please. No, no._ The shadows made Denmark a horror; his pale face could just be seen, peering from darkness eerily, axe held aloft. But the thing in his other hand was far more dangerous. 'Care to explain _this_ , little brother?' He dropped it to the flagstones with a flourish. Slowly, flushed angry red, Sweden took the bait and picked it up. _You fool_ , cried Finland inwardly. _Let's go, quickly, now. Don't waste time here._

'A letter to Gustav Vasa, rightful King of Sweden.' he said calmly.

'From who?' Denmark's voice was teasing.

'From me.'

'So you admit your treason, lillebror.' He stepped out into the light, and Finland recognised at once that he had been drinking; his smile was too wide, manic, hair messier than ever, and there was a lurching courage about him that only came from alcohol. _Tanska, what have you become?_

'I admit it,' said Sweden in the same level tones. 'And I admit I did it for my country. So we could be free.' Denmark stepped further forward. None of his odd grace with an axe had disappeared- he twirled it casually from hand to hand, never missing a beat. _Drunk, but just the right amount. There's a thought I never imagined having._

'See, here's the thing, Sve-' He raised his axe overhead, and Sweden's sword flashed out to meet it. Denmark quirked one eyebrow. 'Fighting nasty, are we? Well, none of it matters. I won't let you leave. Stay, and we'll forget this.' His voice was self-assured, but the words themselves betrayed his fear.

'Come on, Ruotsi,' muttered Finland. 'We need to go. Now.' His plea fell on deaf ears. Sweden could look at nothing but Denmark, eyes cold and sad, hear nothing but the taunts that were sapping at his control.

'...too weak to survive on your own, see what happened last time, we conquered you once, we'll do it again if we have to, not strong enough, not powerful enough...'

'Shut _up!_ ' roared Sweden. 'I don't need you anymore!' He was a furious lion, leaping forward, claws bared- but Denmark was pure fire, channelled into one being. He deflected every swordstroke easily, smile ever-present. _He is playing with him,_ realised Finland. 'You've always thought- I was- too weak-' Sweden grunted between blows. 'That I couldn't- stand alone- you're _wrong!_ ' He leapt, leaving himself open, stupidly open- and Denmark seized the opportunity gladly. His axe took Sweden in the back of the head.

 _No, no no. This isn't happening._ Finland moved as though in a dream, speeding to Sweden's side. A great lump was already swelling up on his skull.

'Finl'nd...' he muttered. '...Suomi.' Tears welled in Finland's eyes. _That is the first time he has ever called me Suomi_. It was his true name, one he kept to himself, only brought out when speaking with his own people. And said here, now... He fought his way to a kneeling position.

'You didn't kill him.' Denmark was breathing heavily, exhilaration plain on his face.

'No. I couldn't afford to do that.' _As much as I'd like to,_ was the rest of that sentence.

' _Why?_ ' Finland let out a ragged sob. 'It would have been easier...I...' And he could not put it into words- how Sweden was alive, still, _still_ , how all of this hurt too much and too close _and-_

'You have no choice but to stay now.' Denmark extended a hand. But is it of f _riendship, or are we prisoners again?_ Cautiously, Finland took it. He pulled Denmark into a tight embrace.

'I knew you'd stay,' he murmured. 'I knew it.' _I am so, so sorry, Tanska._ His hand came up, up, up- and the dagger plunged into Denmark's chest. He staggered backwards, coughing.

'Fin...how...please...' He let out one cough that was louder than the others, and blood flecked the carpet. 'Please...Fin...' Denmark was on his knees now. Tears rolled down his face. _From pain, or guilt?_ If the gods were good, it was both.

'Come on, Ber.' said Finland gently. 'We need to go now-' His voice cracked, trembling horribly, and all of a sudden he could not see for tears. So he focused on the door ahead. He focused on helping Sweden to his feet, looping an arm around his waist to help him walk. On the frosted air of outside. On anything except Denmark, one hand fallen limply across his chest, the other staring deadly still at the sky. But he could not ignore the blood seeping into the carpet, or his own bitter tears.

He woke to the sound of screaming. Norway stretched, feeling oddly contented. That was something he had not experienced for months. When the screams did not stop, he groaned, rolling out of the warm bed in reluctance. A knock sounded at the door. _Gods, I hope no one's been murdered._

'Come in.' he mumbled, pulling a cloak over his shoulders. A servant appeared in the doorway, face grave.

'I am so sorry...' A few small words later, he was sprinting down the stairs, heart pounding and a dull sickness in his throat. The sight in the hallway stopped him dead. Denmark, slumped sideways across the floor, blood still slowly trickling from a dark hole in his chest. His eyes were closed, but his mouth gaped open as though terrified, lips crusted red. Norway stepped cautiously towards him. He recoiled when his foot landed in something wet and red. _This can't be happening. Please, say it's not so. Please_. His hand shook, coming down to rest on Denmark's arm. It was icy cold, even through his sleeve.

'Get him upstairs,' said Norway suddenly. He snatched back his hand, curling the fingers around each other to try and forget that terrible freezing sensation. 'Who found him?'

'I- I did, sir.' offered a maid. 'I heard raised voices, and...well...' Something clicked in his mind. _Sweden and Finland. They've gone_. It was all too much- Denmark, as good as dead; Sweden and Finland, run away, probably never to return; the blood, too much blood, blood staining everything.

'Bring clean cloths, and bowls of water.' Two servants scurried off to obey. Norway pressed a trembling hand to his face, following upstairs blindly. Denmark was deposited in his room, lying limp and cold on the bed. _A pulse. Why didn't I think of that?_ He dashed away tears as he placed a thumb over Denmark's wrist. Something- the late hour, more likely finding Denmark dead- had addled his thoughts, mixed up everything until he could not be sure if this was a dream. A flicker. _Please. Please. I'll do anything_. He felt around again, up and down the cold arm. A faint, irregular beat fluttered under his touch. _Thank the gods._

'Leave me.' The servants looked hesitant.

'But, sir-'

' _Leave_. Please.' They did as he bid, all anxious faces and hushed voices. Norway did not care. He dipped a cloth into the warm water, tearing open Denmark's tunic to survey the wound. It was small, most likely done by a dagger, but deep. _Whoever did this aimed to kill._ Sweden, he guessed. _Puncture a lung or find the heart, and he's done for. I don't have much time._ But he had performed healings before, and this one was no different. A strange serenity came over Norway, cutting off the flood of emotions that clamoured at his mind, longing to be set free. _I cannot afford to lose focus._ He wiped carefully at the wound. Soon four cloths were soaked in red, and his hands were like those of a murderer, but the wound was clean.

'This is going to hurt.' Or, it would have if Denmark was awake. Norway threaded a bone needle, snapping off the yarn with his teeth. Then he stabbed the end of it into Denmark's skin. Each stitch was painstakingly slow, so as not to tear the delicate tissue. Norway's eyes stung by the time he was finished. But a little colour had come back to Denmark's face, and his breathing was at least visible now. Whether that was one of the benefits of being a nation, or pure luck, Norway would never know.

'You idiot.' he murmured, taking Denmark's hand and skimming his thumb up and down. 'What did you say that made Sve stab you?' No response. Norway sighed. He often complained about Denmark's neverending need to talk, even yelled at him to be quiet. Now the silence was just wrong. He took another look at the wound. It was high up- a little higher than the heart, just between the lungs, barely avoiding the windpipe. Once, he would have thanked every god under the sun for such luck. But something about where the dagger had fallen did not seem so coincidental. _Did Sweden really do this?_ He could imagine him running Denmark through with a sword, that seemed plausible. Yet a dagger...and placed so accurately too. An unpleasant jolt shivered down his spine. _Not- not Finland?_ He was small, smiling- and deadly with a knife, if memory served.

'Oh, Den.' he whispered. 'What have you done?' He ran a hand through Denmark's hair, noticing that it had lost its usual body to fan out over his forehead. _He knew what he was doing with that knife. He knew it would not kill Denmark._ And then his tears fell properly- in great floods, spilling over by the dozen, dotting Denmark's comatose face and destroying Norway's facade of calm. _Gone, gone, gone. They finally did it. They finally left us._

He knew he had to be strong. He knew this would break Denmark utterly.

Yet all he could do was cry.

 **Review and I'll update more quickly :D (sorry)**


	8. Chapter 8

**I had really bad writer's block all through this, but I promise the next chapter will be longer! Enjoy! :D**

In the days that followed, Denmark remained comatose, eyelids occasionally fluttering or his mouth letting slip some garbled mess of words. He was still cold to the touch, but feverish, and Norway sat by his bed for three nights whilst he recovered. Iceland carried him through that first unbearable part. He fetched meals, ferried messages back and forth, put his arms around Norway when the tears inevitably began to fall. And fall they did, heavy and often. _I thought I would be empty by now. I have cried enough to fill entire lakes, yet as soon as my eyes are dry the storm comes along again._ The emotion that overwhelmed him then, spurred him to keep going, was anger- at King Christian, simply for being the ruthless bastard he was; Sweden, for taking the opportunity that was only his right; even Denmark, for staying asleep, not sitting up and smiling, just lying there with his too-pale face a mask of mystery. _And me. I am most angry at myself._ He loved the idiot in the bed, there was no denying it. Sometimes Norway felt that, were it not for his relationship with Denmark, he would have done what Sweden did and left long ago. _Why couldn't I be stronger? Why did I let him hold me, when I knew it was better to walk away?_

'Damn you,' he hissed through tears, squeezing Denmark's hand tight enough to leave marks. 'Just wake up. We need you, idiot. Wake up.'

On the third day, he did.

Norway was reading by the bed, when a hacking cough jolted him from his seat.

'Den?' Denmark sat up unsteadily, still coughing, mouth buried in the crook of his elbow. But his eyes were open, blinking in Norway's direction. 'Don't sit up- the wound- I'll get some water-' Norway pushed him back down gently, mouth trembling. He had wanted this day so much it hurt. Yet now it was here... _He will be inconsolable. There will be nothing I can do to ease his pain. Only stand by and watch, try to hold him together._ An icy hand clutched at his own.

'Don't go.' Denmark's voice was reduced to something a shade above a whisper, cracked and dry. 'It hurts-' He broke off, coughing, hand pressing on the wound.

'I'll get you something, just stay here.' Norway could not leave the room fast enough. The Denmark he knew was gone, replaced by this pale, coughing creature with eyes that gazed up mournfully, hands that were cold and clammy. Even in the past, he had never been affected so badly by a wound. _He would always laugh it off, slap on a bandage if I told him to enough times, then run off to vanquish the next foe. Nothing could ever bring him down_. He leaned his forehead against the cool stone wall. It soothed Norway's throbbing mind, reordering his thoughts to give him some semblance of control. The war was far from over, he knew that well enough. With their nation to bolster their strength, the Swedish rebels would no doubt pose much more of a threat than petty uprisings now. And perhaps that was not such a bad thing. _Oh, Den, you and your stubborn people. Let them go. It will be easier for all of us._ Denmark was in no fit state to attend council meetings, let alone lead an army into battle, so Norway knew he would have to assume certain duties. That he could deal with. But it was Denmark the man that concerned him now. _I was a fool, to imagine that he would leap from his sickbed and chase away all my fears. I have no choice now._ He had made it long ago- and now that choice would be tested truly.

When he returned, Denmark was lying on his side, staring miserably at the wall.

'Here,' said Norway, proffering a mix of herbs and honey. 'This should dull some of the pain.' Denmark's despondent gaze was not promising, but he drank it anyway.

'I need to get up, Nor,' he said weakly. 'It's too cold in here. Too still.' Norway forced a smile. _I seem to be doing that a lot these days._

'You were stabbed three days ago,' he replied, employing the gentle tones he used when speaking to Iceland. 'You're in no fit state to be up and-'

'I'm going mad.' His shivering whisper sent chills through Norway.

'What do you mean?'

'Just staying here, doing _nothing_.' He slapped his knee limply. 'It hurts- like Fin- like he drove an icicle into me. Cold. But I think if I don't get out of here, then I'll be cold forever. It's hard to explain- sounds stupid-'

'No,' interrupted Norway softly. He clasped his hands together, so they would not lose control and rake red lines down his face. 'No, I understand.' Denmark had ever been a creature of heat, pouring his all into everything he did- he killed with fury, laughed louder than anyone, loved passionately and deeply. To be held back now, to feel cold, would be like becoming someone else entirely.

'And when I think of this, of that night-' Denmark's hand moved to the puckered scar that was all he had to remember Finland by. 'It gets worse. Colder.' Norway could hold himself back no longer. He shoved himself up from the chair, flinging shaking arms around Denmark's neck. The embrace he received in return was icy, feeble. Roaring anger filled his head. _Do I blame Finland? Sweden? What do I do?_ It took him a moment to realise he had said that last part aloud. Denmark's tears mingled with his own, cold running into warm.

'Just don't leave me,' he murmured. _I can do that._

It was a further six days before he was finally deemed strong enough to get out of bed. During that time, Norway and Iceland hardly left the room- Iceland because of his insistence on swapping their roles and reading Denmark stories instead, Norway because of the promise he had made. It haunted him wherever he went. The first thought in his head when he woke up, with him all through the long, sorrowful days of Denmark's recovery, at night when he had to leave him alone and retire to his own room. _Just don't leave me._ It was easy enough in principle. To stay in the house, in the country. What proved impossible for Norway was penetrating the sudden shield around Denmark's mind, built from every cruel word Sweden had ever spoken, every angry glance from Finland, and of course their eventual departure. Even now, up and walking, he hardly seemed himself.

'I can't do it, Norge.' he said once, when Norway walked into his room to find him staring hopelessly at his great curved battleaxe. 'Two weeks ago I could lift that as easily as I might lift Iceland. Now it's impossible.'

'No, it's not.' Norway found himself saying. _If I deny it, perhaps he will too. I can have my hopes, even if they are small_. He lifted the axe himself, though beads of sweat broke out upon his forehead. It only served to remind him how hellishly strong Denmark had been.

'Here. Take it.' Denmark touched the polished oak handle- tentatively, as though he feared some demon of the past would leap out at him. 'Remember how it felt, to hold this, to run across a battlefield laughing.' Tired blue eyes met his own.

'I remember,' he said, voice wispy. He lifted it with his other hand, ran his gaze down the lethal silver arc of the head.

'You were unstoppable,' said Norway. And something stirred within him- a longing for the old days, before there were kings and unions, when all that mattered was the sweet rush of battle fever and blood upon your sword. 'No one could withstand you. Do you remember?' It was almost visible, the sudden spark that lit Denmark's mind.

'Unstoppable,' he repeated. He lifted the axe high above his head, just as he had so many hundreds of times before, to end the life of the enemy in one sweep. It dropped to the floor with a dull _clunk_. 'I remember what that felt like. No one, nothing, could withstand me if I had this.' He looked back at Norway, eyes watery. 'That was someone else. Someone stronger. Not me.'

'It was you,' whispered Norway. 'You have to _remember_.' He sprang forward, squeezing Denmark's hands so tightly it hurt. 'Please, I can't lose you. Don't let this destroy you.'

'What if I want to forget?' The words were like a punch in the stomach. Norway let Denmark slide from his grasp, let him leave the room. _He is still there, beneath the surface. I saw it._ But what point was there in rescuing someone who wanted to drown?

He only deteriorated further as time went by. Denmark's coming was heralded by a dry cough these days, testament to Finland's last gift. He drank his favourite dark ale more often than ever, but took no pleasure in it as he had once done. _It helps to dull his memories,_ Norway knew. _But memories are the only way I will ever get him back._ He dreamed of him most nights- the real Denmark, who would come sweeping in with a grin, down a glass of Finland's vodka, then smother Norway in his warmth and swear never to let go. When he awoke, alone and cold, there were tears on his pillow. Even Iceland could do nothing. His cheerful nature coaxed a thin smile from Denmark at best, and his constant begging to go out riding was always met with Denmark insisting he was too tired. But there was energy enough left in him. Norway had heard him many a night, after alcohol made him mindless, beating at the walls and sobbing Sweden's name. But when he went to Denmark's room to comfort him, the door was always locked. _He wants me to stay. Yet when he looks at me, sometimes I swear he hardly recognises me._ He had bad dreams too, night terrors that meant Norway fell asleep to the sounds of muffled screams, ragged weeping that tore a hole in his heart. _And there is nothing I can do._ That was what hurt most.

It reached the point where Denmark's screams were so bad, Norway decided to enroach upon the matter with him. He took it up in the early evening- after they had eaten, but before Denmark sought out his ale. _Sober in body and spirit._

'Danmark,' he began. That earned him a glance. 'I know that you have nightmares.' Denmark's hands tensed, gripping at the sides of his chair. He met Norway's level gaze with no small reluctance.

'How could you know that?'

'You scream, Den.' said Norway softly. He moved as though to take his hand, but Denmark flinched away. 'Loudly. Like there's something tearing your heart out.' The simile was dramatic, he conceded, yet it fitted well.

'That's what it feels like.' he muttered after a while.

'Your wound still hurts?'

'No, no, not like that.' He ran splayed fingers through his hair, one of the few mannerisms he had retained from his old self. 'But it aches. I don't know if it's the wound, but-' Denmark gasped deeply, drawing in great gulps of air. 'Whenever I think about them, Norge. That's when it happens. And they're all I dream about.' His voice faded to a mumble. He stood, holding up a shaking hand. 'Look at that. _Look_.' Unwillingly, Norway forced his eyes to the hand. 'I'll never fight with that. Never again.' _I have to be brave._

'Then maybe you should stop drinking.' It was a chancy remark, but true.

'But that's the only thing that works!' He gripped his hair in fistfuls, laughing bitterly. 'When I've had enough, their faces go blurry, and their voices slur. So does everything else, but it's a small price to pay, wouldn't you agree?' Norway nodded minutely. He opened his mouth- then stopped, seeing Iceland in the doorframe. Denmark turned away in shame.

'What is it, Island?' Iceland's eyes flickered nervously to Denmark.

'I heard you talking, and-' His voice dropped to a hush- '-Dan sounded sad.' _Oh, lillebror, that's not even half of it._

'He's often sad these days.' Norway said, trying to keep his voice down. 'Because of Sve and-' he bit his lip.

'Oh, I can hear you.' Denmark hissed. 'Poor sad Danmark, can't deal with his bastard brothers leaving. I don't need them! I- I'll- they-' He kicked over his chair, and the resounding _clang_ only fuelled the madness in his eyes. 'I don't need you!' he yelled brokenly, again and again, beating the wall with his fists until they streamed with red.

'Make him stop, storebror. Please.' Iceland's sobs echoed in his ears. Norway held his little brother close, whispering mindless words of comfort. But his eyes remained locked onto Denmark. He was muttering under his breath in Old Norse, not seeming to care about the blood that dripped from his hands onto the floor.

'Dan...' Iceland wormed his way from Norway's arms. 'Please...please, stop...'

'I can't!' Denmark let out one last, terrifying laugh, falling to his knees whilst the tears streamed down his face.

'Island, come with me.' Norway seized his hand again, pulling him from the room to stand in the hallway outside. 'Now, what's wrong?' _I could answer that question myself. What's wrong? Bloody everything._

'Dan was crying.' said Iceland through his own tears. 'I've never seen him cry before. What happened to him, Noregur?' _He discovered what it meant to be truly cold._

 _'He's sad that Fin and Sve left, that's all. Aren't you sad, Ice?'_

'I suppose so,' mumbled Iceland. 'Sví was scary-looking, but he always smiled at me. And Fin always gave me sweets. I miss that.' Norway gave him another hug.

'You're a good boy, Island. But if you want Dan to get better, you have to go to bed so I can help him. Understand?' He nodded, sniffing, then let go of Norway and trudged down the hallway to his room. Norway's face softened with love. _He is truly good. He could make Denmark happy, if only he would let him._

When Norway returned, Denmark was still kneeling, staring at the bloody mess of his hands. He did not seem to notice when Norway put his arms around him.

'I need you,' he murmured into his neck. 'Did I ever tell you that? More than anything.' _I never told him I loved him. Though if I said it now, would he even hear?_ 'Your eyes are like the sky, but a thousand times brighter. I miss when you looked at me- properly, not through me to the next drink. You'll never go a day without knocking something over or breaking something. But it doesn't matter. Because you're you. And I wouldn't change that for the world.' He knew he had said the right thing when Denmark returned the embrace, arms cold but strong again. 'We'll get through this. I swear.' Their lips met. It was a brief, soft kiss, one which they broke away from to stare into each other's eyes- then met again, tears mingling on their interlocked faces. Norway did not resist when Denmark pulled them both up, nor when he kicked open his bedroom door and carried right on where they had left off. He gave himself to Denmark wholly, to the broken man he had loved for so long, not caring that their embrace was wet with tears, that there was no tenderness in every touch- only need. They fell asleep that night in a mess of tangled limbs and raw eyes.

Sun streamed through the open window, rays dancing on Norway's face to wake him up. He stretched like a lethargic cat, or as best as he could, trapped the tight circle of Denmark's arms.

'You need to wake up now,' he said softly. His hand tangled in the unruly mess of Denmark's hair, which glowed golden in the morning light. There was a small noise of protest from the pillow. Norway let himself be pulled in closer, revelling in the warmth.

'Thank you,' he heard mumbled in his ear. 'I need you so much.' The tiniest of smiles curved Denmark's mouth. It was nothing compared to his signature wide grin of the past, but to Norway that smile spoke volumes. _I have found a way in._ And if he could get past the demons in Denmark's head, he could defeat them too.

'You didn't dream last night, did you?'

'No. I wonder why.' Norway let out a laugh, but already an idea was forming in his mind. He stared into the azure eyes he loved so, trying to unravel their depths.

'From now on, you'll sleep with me.' He found Denmark's hand and held it tight. 'In either of our rooms. But you don't sleep alone again, or you'll have nightmares. Promise?'

'It's not exactly a hard thing to promise, Norge.' Norway shot him a fierce look. 'But yes. I will.'

Things did not get better immediately. Though Denmark shared a room with Norway every night, he rarely slept before midnight, consuming liberal amounts of alcohol until the ache in his chest loosened. The walls became crusted with blood from his hands. He would sit and watch Iceland clean it off uncomplaining, then say how sorry he was and read him a story for a reward. But it did not change anything. Except now when he beat his hands bloody, Norway was there to bandage them, to rub his smooth fingers over every scar so Denmark felt less worthless. Once he walked into the library, to find Denmark's hands bloody to the wrist and a knife by his side. He did not say a word, only cleaned away the accusing crimson and wrapped the cuts in soft cloths- then held him all through the black watches of the night, whispering that he was not alone. Mornings were the best time. The three of them ate together in front of the fire, moods mellow with drowsiness. Iceland would burble sleepily about his dreams, whilst Denmark and Norway listened, close and affectionate from their night together. Slowly but surely, the world was being put right again. There were still nightmares occasionally, still days when Denmark's old wound pained him and he spent the day cold and aching. But they were fighting it through together.

They stood in the garden one crisp morning, watching Iceland cavort between flowerbeds and dance through the trees. It was the first day of April- the day Sweden usually sowed his new plants for the year.

'He loved this place, you know.'

'Hmm?' said Norway, engrossed in Iceland's endearing antics.

'Sweden. He loved the garden.' Pain flashed for a second across Denmark's face. _That is the first time he has said Sweden's name when not drunk. The first time it wasn't screamed through tears._

'Yes. I suppose he did.' They were silent again for a moment, remembering their brother. Sweden spent hours at a time here, planting seeds and bulbs with tremendous care for such large, rough hands, cultivating the flowers like they were his own children. _He would be a good father._ Norway frowned; where had that thought come from? He did not know if nations could have children, had seen only familiar bonds like that between him and Iceland. _And if we could, what would they be? Like human children, born and living and dead whilst we are still young?_ Maybe they would represent a colony, like the clusters of islands around Scotland that still belonged to him and Denmark.

'Nor.' He turned around, to see Denmark twirling a white-and-yellow flower between his fingers. A marguerite daisy, Denmark's national flower. A smile spread across his face as Denmark pushed the flower behind one ear, stem cool against the skin.

'I'm sure I look beautiful.'

'Oh, you do.' Norway smiled again, bending down to pluck a flower of his own. Sweden had taken care to plant all their emblems, from lily of the valley to white dryad. He slid his own purple heather into Denmark's wild hair.

'Where's my flower?' demanded Iceland, running over. 'Which one?' Norway picked it for him- the white dryad, bringing out silver lights in Iceland's eyes. Denmark took a deep breath.

'We should keep sowing them,' he said, eyes darting seriously from Norway to Iceland. 'All of them. Finland's and Sweden's included. So- so we don't forget.' Warmth filled Norway, from his feet to the now-spinning recesses of his mind. Just a few weeks ago Denmark had wanted nothing more than to forget. Now he was taking action to prevent just that. _We still have a way to go. But this is progress._

'That's a wonderful idea.' He set off through the flowers, past Sweden's carefully tended herb beds, until he came to the right one. Norway plucked a sprig and held it out to Denmark.

'Rosemary. For remembrance.' He hesitated for the briefest of moments, then took the herb.

'I must remember.' breathed Denmark. 'Who they are. Who I am.' He smiled again at Norway. 'I've got something to show you.'

The two of them went to the library, Iceland to fetch a vase for the flowers. In that short time, Denmark had become subdued again, twining his rosemary with Sweden's flower. _He wants to remember, he truly does. But every memory causes him pain._ Norway felt that pain too- but he had not been stabbed by his brother. _It is different for me. No less difficult, though I hide it better._

'Wait here.' Denmark left the room, only to return a few moments later, clutching something small in his hands. He held it out to Norway.

'Den- I don't think-' Denmark fixed him with a gaze of terrible sadness. Norway's stomach clenched guiltily, and he rubbed the blue velvet of the box with an agitated finger.

'Please, Lukas. Just open it.' The use of his human name made his head jerk up, and he stared straight into Denmark's eyes. _This is important. If it can make him solemn moments after smiling in the garden with us, then I hold something precious in my hands._ He lifted up the lid, praying that his secret suspicions would not be fulfilled. Norway got his wish- not quite. A curious sensation took over his head, conflicting thoughts and feelings mingling into an uncomfortable buzz. Inside was a cross, small and golden, engraved with tiny runes that his now blurred eyes could not make out.

'It's for your hair,' explained Denmark awkwardly. But they both knew that was not true. This little clip said what a thousand words could not- made up for too much ale and slammed doors and strained silences, months of falling apart when all he needed was someone to hold him together. _I suppose that is me._ Norway reached into the box, fingers trembling, and a small noise sounded in his throat when Denmark's hand covered his own.

'I want to do this. I have to.' He said the second part almost to himself, eyes becoming shadowed. Gently, as though handling the wings of a butterfly, he picked up the cross and slid it into Norway's hair. The lightest of kisses landed upon his forehead.

'Mathias-' Denmark left the room before he could finish, leaving Norway with gold in his hair and ice in his heart. One hand came up to caress the cross. It was not a ring. But it was enough.

 **Reviews? :D Even the cold-hearted me felt quite sad writing this, so hopefully someone else thought the same!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Heyyy I'm so sorry this is late I will try to update more quickly but I had no time to write until late yesterday :D Enjoy, and review (?) :D**

They fled Denmark under the misty light of a spring moon. Finland half carried, half dragged Sweden, strength fuelled by adrenaline alone, until they reached the harbour. It still clamoured with activity, despite the late hour. Merchant ships with fine silk sails bobbed gently at anchor, side by side with the cruel iron cribs of the warships, and burly fishermen hauled in huge crates of seafood on their shoulders. Already some had set off for the next morning's catch.

'Come on, Ruotsi,' murmured Finland. 'Nearly there.' His nervous excitement was beginning to wear off, replaced by a dull, heartsick fatigue. At last they stopped at the harbour wall. Sweden slid away from his grasp, just holding himself upright on the damp stone. His eyes were unfocused, breaths sharp and uneven. 'Wait here.' Finland readied himself, smoothing down his tunic and adjusting the clasp of his cloak. 'Excuse me,' he said, catching the arm of the nearest passing man. He scrutinised Finland with barely concealed disdain, taking in the bag over his arm, the foreign accent, his small stature and unarmed hands. 'Excuse me, sir.' tried Finland again. 'When is the next ship to Sweden?'

'That one, with the white-and-blue sails,' he said, waving an arm behind him. 'The Näktergal, out of Västerås. It'll be cheap, what with the war and all that.' He stalked past without another word. Finland's thanks died upon his lips, but it was replaced by a smile. _We will escape._ He hurried back to Sweden, noting with concern how he clutched at his head, wincing.

'Ruotsi, I've found us a ship!' There was no reply. 'It'll leave soon. We need to be quick.' He grabbed Sweden's hand, feeling no small relief when he stood up sluggishly and followed. But Finland's fears were not yet gone. He had seen Denmark crush whole heads with that axe of his. Perhaps it was only luck that Sweden had not suffered the same fate. _Or maybe he knew what he was doing. Just like I knew I would never kill him with that knife._

The captain of the Näktergal proved to be a man of few words, as evidenced by his single grunt when Finland handed over their fare for passage. It was infinitely better that way. _No questions, no answers. No obstacles in our path._ He sat Sweden down on the larger of their two bunks, kneeling in front of him.

'Ruotsi,' said Finland softly. 'Ruotsi, can you understand me?'

'Yes,' muttered Sweden, though it was with visible effort.

'Good. Now, what is my name?' Shadowed indigo eyes met his own, riddled with despair.

'Fin- Finl-' He gasped suddenly, hands scrabbling at his temples. Something twisted inside of Finland. He did not regret stabbing Denmark so much anymore, if there was any regret in the first place.

'It's all right,' he reassured. 'You'll be all right.' The soothing words came easily; inside Finland's heart lurched and leapt, building up a sick feeling in his throat. _What if he never speaks again? What if it gets worse? What if he does not recognise me?_ That last thought was so terrible he felt tears pricking at his eyes. Sweden had always been taciturn. But his voice was soft, low, like velvet. Never hearing it again was a prospect Finland did not dare to consider.

'Tino.' His smile was reciprocated clumsily by Sweden- but it was a smile all the same. Tino would do for now.

The rest of the journey was difficult, marked by Sweden's prolonged silences and Finland's forced enthusiasm. He tried to smile, spoke of little but their newfound freedom, yet all he received in return was a blank stare. And Sweden's head still pained him. He never complained of it- barely retained the ability to do so- but kneaded his forehead whenever he thought Finland was not looking. They did not speak of what happened back in Copenhagen. But as soon as the conversation died out, (often, too often) it hung between them, poised like a snake ready to strike. _Only this time the snake can bite both of us._ He still dreamed of it. In his narrow berth at night, upon a rocking northern sea, Finland was haunted by Denmark's face as the knife slipped between his ribs, the heartbroken look on his face, the way his blood had gushed out and his skin turned marble-pale. Norway and Iceland were another matter. _In a different world, a better world, we would have been closer_. But this was the world they lived in, and to Finland Norway was pleasant enough; a brother in war and in peace, never letting slip his secret side. _He showed me everything except the truth. To a younger eye, we would have seemed the best of friends._ It hurt to think of Iceland. He spent most of his time copying Norway's every action, or gazing up in awe at Denmark as he practiced with his axe. Yet Finland was the one he told his small, odd stories- how the kitchen cat had fallen into a blackberry bush and come out stained with juice, how Sweden's flowers made him sneeze but he was too afraid to say, how he hated milk and only drank it because Storebror made him. _Danmörk and Noregur are good for playing,_ he had said to Finland once. _But you're good for talking._

They landed in Gräddö after nine days. It was a short journey from there to Västerås, where the self-proclaimed King Gustav was rumoured to be hiding, and naturally Sweden wanted to be with his ruler. He clung on with characteristic grimness, braving the whole process of avoiding the Danish soldiers, and keeping pace with Finland the entire way to Västerås.

'Ruotsi,' he said quietly, eyes fixed upon the towering city gate. 'We did it.' A feeble nod was his only reply. But Finland was too exhausted, too exhilarated to notice Sweden's stumbling walk, or the way his breath came in sharp gasps. This city was notorious for its consistent rebel support. It was dangerously close to Stockholm, where Denmark's people still held control, yet Gustav waited out the days here, ready to strike as soon as Christian should blunder. They were let in after a thorough search, and even the letter with the king's own seal on it earned nothing more than a cursory glance.

'People here to see you, Your Grace,' the guard at the door announced. 'Been searched and cleared at the gates.'

'Send them in.' King Gustav did not look how Finland had imagined him- did not look like a king, in truth. He was slight and round-shouldered, with a rodent-like look to him that could nevertheless take responsibility for the shrewd gleam in his eye. Already-thinning red-brown hair covered his head and face- but that could all be forgiven in a heartbeat, for the visible emotion that seized him upon their entry. 'Berwald,' he said. 'Good God, I never thought I'd see you again.' Much back-slapping and handshaking occurred, and both men were rather tremulous about the mouth by the time it was over. They had known each other in the days of peace, had forged an unbreakable bond between leader and nation once the peace shattered, and were now reunited to mend it. 'And this is-'

'Suomi.' He let that hang in the air for a moment- his true name, no titles attached, no foreign words in a foreign tongue. _Perhaps when all this is over, they will grant me my freedom as well. That sort of thing does seem rather fashionable nowadays._ 'Though you would know me as Finland, Your Grace.' Only then did he make his bow.

'Ah, yes, Finland.' The king's eyes lit up with clarity. 'I understand your people-' He was cut off by a heavy sound- Sweden, falling into a chair. He looked as though he had been moments away from hitting the floor instead.

'Your Grace, forgive me,' said Finland desperately. 'Leaving Copenhagen was- difficult for us. We did not leave unscathed. If we may resume this discussion at a more appropriate time?'

'Yes, yes of course,' Gustav waved a hand to dismiss them, though inside Finland's sick feeling had returned. _Sweden did not say a single word on our journey from Gräddö. He has not said a single word since we set foot in the city._ He cursed himself, for forgetting.

'Come on, Ruotsi.' he murmured in his own tongue. 'You need to get up. Stand up.' His hand clenched on Sweden's shoulder- too tight, too panicked. 'He's not responding.' Gustav reacted before Finland even knew what to do, shouting outside for his guards. Sweden was lifted from his seat, borne down endless corridors to an unfamiliar room. _He is worse, somehow._ A solitary fear nagged at him- that he had been too harsh, too insistent that they press on, and in doing so had hampered Sweden's recovery. _He has to get better._ Norway had been burnt at the stake, and Denmark still no doubt whispered 'beautiful' in his ear when he thought no one else could hear. _He will be the same._ If he was to change- but no, he could not dwell on that now.

'I have sent for the physicians,' King Gustav informed him gravely. 'No effort shall be spared upon my own nation, you have my word on that.' Finland thought that their positions were a little confused there- victorious rebel leader and king making a solemn promise to his lowly colony. But he was in no way inclined to complain. The king hesitated. Those all-seeing eyes swept across Finland's face, leaving his soul bare. 'What happened? Back in Denmark?' _If I lie, he will see through it like a window._

'He was hit as we fled, Your Grace. With the flat of an axe.'

'And who did this, if I may ask?' Finland's smile was soft and sudden.

'Having none myself, Your Grace, the wars of brothers are a constant mystery to me. But I repaid the culprit back in kind.'

'Good.' This king was beginning to grow on him; he had intuition, intelligence, all of that, yet there was compassion beneath the surface. And compassion was a rare thing these days.

Finland would gladly have spent every waking moment at Sweden's side, watching as he slowly regained his speech and the pain in his head subsided, but it appeared King Gustav had seen great worth in him. He requested- requested, not ordered- that Finland attend his war councils, and took every piece of advice seriously. In some ways that made him the wisest ruler of Sweden Finland had ever seen. Gustav's predecessors, on the whole, tended to regard their colony as a mere passage to the East, another step on the rich road of trade. Yet the current king planned to appoint Finnish governors there once the war was over, simultaneously showing and earning trust for both parties. He rallied every accessible Finn to arms, and many had taken up the call. That nearly brought tears to Finland's eyes. To speak with his people, to hear voices that did not jar upon his ears, to share in all the culture and customs that had been kept from him for so long. _Perhaps he is playing me. Perhaps this is all some ploy to secure my loyalty._ If so, it was working. On the other hand, and more beneficially to Finland, Gustav's sudden interest in the land might not turn out so well for him in the end. He was very much a rebel, and immersing the people of his colony in that rebellion might plant ideas in their heads. Not that Finland complained. He would survive on his own if that was how things turned out, yet for now being part of Sweden was as good as he could have hoped for. _The tides are finally turning in our favour._

'You will come with me to Lübeck,' announced Gustav. 'It is a Hanseatic city, and the League have never been allies of Denmark. We can count on their support.'

'Of course, Your Grace.' But Finland remembered the Hanseatic League, from when he had travelled to the Holy Roman Empire. If they were anything like they had been then, long and painful negotiations seemed to be in order. 'If I may have a moment...' The king nodded, already turning to his maps. _He is utterly single-minded. I suppose I should credit him for that._ Finland left the room and made his way to Sweden, new swordbelt ringing out with every step. The people of Västerås did not have much, but what they did have was given up to the king to aid his rebellion. He did not like this castle. It was built for the sole purpose of war, which made the rooms stuffy, the battlements arife with siege machinery. Everywhere Finland looked, there was a kneeling mat for an archer, or weapons stacked against the walls in case of invasion. _Paranoia_ , he would have said, if asked to describe the main inspiration for the castle. But it kept them safe. _And we will not be here much longer._ He entered their shared room. Sweden was sat in the window bracket, staring out at the little town below. These days his speech was thick, mumbling, with perhaps one word in ten being audible. The axe blow had affected his speech as well, so King Gustav had ordered to have a pair of seeing glasses made for him.

'Ruotsi, I'm leaving today.' It was never 'Sweden' these days. Certainly not 'Sve'. 'I came to say goodbye.' There was no reply. Slowly Sweden turned to look at him. In his hands he fumbled with a block of wood and a whittling knife, shaving off pieces with nervous intensity. He had made no recognisable shapes as of yet- but at least it kept him occupied.

'Good- g'dbye, Tino.' _Tino. That is the only word he can say clearly._

'Goodbye, Berwald.' They stared at each other a moment longer. Sweden took in Finland's warlike attire- squinting a little- noted his new sword and dagger, the swishing chink of chainmail and the leather vambraces strapped to his forearms.

'Whe- wh'n-'

'I don't know when I'll be back. But, Ruotsi-' He grasped both of Sweden's hands- '-I will return. We will talk again.' Sweden tapped his lips with a finger. The message was clear enough. 'You _will_ recover, Ber. And I'll be there to see it.' He let go before it was too late, and left the room without looking back. _First rule of battle. Never look back._ Who had taught him that? But it rang true enough neverthless.

He had grown increasingly tired of boat journeys, and the one to Lübeck proved to be no different. _We could be fighting right now,_ thought Finland on the fifth day. _We could stand victorious in Stockholm city centre, where once the streets ran red with Swedish blood._ But instead they were here. On their way back to the Holy Roman Empire. Finland practically leapt off the ship when they arrived, for once agreeing with King Gustav's insistence that they press on immediately to the city.

'It is vital that we secure their support,' muttered Gustav as they made their way to the council chamber. 'Serve me well today, and you shall be rewarded.' He left that reward to Finland's imagination. But the word _freedom_ would not leave him, no matter how much he tried to focus on other things.

'Freedom,' whispered Finland. He shivered, the word cool and sweet on his tongue, like iced syrup.

'We are honoured you would come to visit us at such a time, my lord.' said the Hanseatic's League's main representative. He and his cohorts were of course different to the ones Finland had met decades ago in Prague, but they all possessed the same false smiles and glib tongues. 'You have our sympathies for the troubles in your land.'

'I thank you,' said Gustav, returning the smile. _He will be good at this,_ decided Finland. _He is patient, reasoned, just- everything needed to be a successful king._ 'I hope that we may resolve some common interests today.'

'What common interests would these be, my lord?' said a second man. 'We are a trader's guild, you an aspiring king. To me, those seem very different.'

'Upon the surface, yes.' replied Gustav evenly. 'But Sweden, standing alone and strong, would be of far more financial worth to you than trapped in a union with Denmark.'

'It is true we have had our differences with Denmark in the past,' said the first man. 'But you understand that the Hanseatic League is no mercenary company, to be hired and paid off. We require fair rewards- and respect- if we are to aid your cause.'

'My respect is as high as you could hope for,' said Gustav. 'And as for your reward, I have considered it already.' _Deftly done,_ thought Finland. _He does not allow them to name a price, yet offers his own goods anyway._ 'Trade deals in the cities of Stockholm, Uppsala and Gothenburg shall be negotiated to your benefit, with your kind support factored into the terms. The Hanseatic League shall be stronger nowhere than Sweden.' The League shared a small chuckle amongst themselves.

'Oh, my lord,' said a third man. 'I would hope we were stronger here, in one of our main towns. Your northern home is beautiful, no doubt, but too cold for us. We would not wish to impose upon your hospitality all the time.'

'To be sure,' Only Finland heard the king grinding his teeth together. Kings never dealt well with this sort. They were cunning, but apt to break into light laughter at the slightest small joke. _Lickspittles, but with ulterior motives._ Dangerous, in other words. 'So I am certain of your support?'

'Oh, of course. We have always intended to support Your Grace.' A parchment was produced, with such speed so as to be suspicious. Gustav scanned it with a stern eye. He passed it across to Finland, who did not need words to recognise the king was unsettled. He was always one step ahead in the game of thrones- men that played at his level were far and few between.

'It all seems to be in order, Your Grace.' said Finland quietly. _Too quick. Too easy. They want something else._ But he affixed his signature without complaint. The stakes were too high to turn back now.

In the end it took several months, just as Finland had suspected. The forces of the Hanseatic League were mostly unblooded young men with no experience, and therefore they were put through a rigorous training campaign before they could be considered fit to fight. And it turned out that some payment was owed for their hiring. Great sums of money were promised by both parties- to the League, for their men, and to Gustav for his army expenses. Only Gustav was expected to repay any debt, however.

'It will help us in the months to come,' was all the king said when Finland questioned his decision. 'We can find the money when I sit upon my throne.' Day after day they waited in Lübeck as the letters poured in, letters informing them that the rebels had taken some stronghold or small town. 'The more we have, the better.' King Gustav often said. But Finland was inclined to disagree. He had known outlaws and rebels that were beloved by their people, yet could never take full control. _Because they did not hold the capital._

'Stockholm, Your Grace.' he pleaded. 'We must sail for Stockholm at once. The armies we have are ready, but if you wait any longer, the rebels back home will destroy themselves trying to take every single town. Force the Danish to surrender, and you have won.' The king contemplated that for a moment, scratching at his short beard.

'I do not wish to besiege my capital city,' he said. 'But-' He held up a finger to silence Finland. '-you may be right. I have stayed here too long. We shall instead attack Scania, which is rightfully Swedish land. The Danes will be surrounded by armies on one side, sea on the other. And they have left their navies in Copenhagen.' It was a sound plan, Finland had to admit.

'You have already thought upon this, Your Grace.' he offered, with some trepidation. Gustav gave a rueful smile.

'I thought you might regard me as indecisive,' he said. 'The capture of Stockholm would have been difficult, especially if they knew we were coming. So I had to made other arrangements, just in case.' He stood tall and proud once more, Sweden's conquering king. 'Send word for the troops to ready themselves. You shall ride with me when we march upon the invaders.'

Swift winds blessed their passage back to Sweden. Now Gustav stood before his armies, golden circlet glinting upon his helmet. In the council chamber he was stick-thin, beady-eyed. But at the front lines, stood high in the stirrups of his warhorse, he might have been an emperor. _The Empire of Sweden. And the Kingdom of Finland._ He shook himself at the thought. Always loyal- to the king first and foremost. That was a rule Finland had lived by ever since he was colonized.

'Today we take back what is ours,' he yelled, voice rich and strong for once. 'We take back our land, for Kungariket Sverige!' The cry sent a chill through Finland. _Sweden often spoke of it, when he knew Denmark was not listening. How he would like to stand at the head of his own army, and hear his name roared from their throats. It seems I am in his place._ As he unsheathed his sword, gathering his reins in the other hand, Finland pledged the day to his absent friend. And he charged.

The battle was close-fought and bloody, with soldiers dying in various horrible ways wherever Finland looked. He stayed close to his king, hacking at the men below. Just as Gustav had predicted, the element of surprise worked nicely in their favour, meaning that the Danish army barely had time to assemble. Finland dodged to the right as a banner came toppling down. It was Denmark's red-and-white flag, though the cross was so soaked with blood it too appeared red. _The oldest flag in the world. And one of the oldest kingdoms as well._ The Danish fought with all the strength and glory of an old empire, tossing aside their disadvantage so it became a real fight. _They have a great legacy to protect, their North Sea Empire. King Harald, King Cnut, Queen Margaret. We have only Gustav- and raw hope._ Yet raw hope would serve well enough. Finland was a horror on horseback, charging down enemies wherever he rode and slashing at those that ran with his sword. Occasionally he would hear a snatch of yelled Finnish, from one of his countrymen, and smiled beneath his helmet.

'For you, Sweden,' he muttered with every kill. 'For Kungariket Sverige. For Gustav.' His whispered battle cries grew louder, until Finland shouted like all the other soldiers, screaming a different name out every time a Dane fell to his sword. 'Suomi!' he cried. ' _Suomi!_ ' That day marked their first great victory. And from there it was to Halland, where Finland did not even notice the blood streaming from his forehead, so drunk on glory he was. He wrote to Sweden- long, detailed letters spilling over with tales of heroism and valour, the dirty wonder of the battlefield and how he wished Sweden could be there to see it all. His replies were short, in a thick, childish hand, but enthusiastic. They made for Blekinge the next day. But it appeared that the Danish knew something of their battle strategy, and were armed and ready when they arrived. That was when the Hanseatic League men proved their worth. They bolstered the army's flagging strength, sending in waves of reinforcements until the Danes had no choice but to retreat. It was after that battle, stood exhausted but proud at his king's side, that Finland discovered Christian II had been deposed. The grim, ruthlessly just king was replaced by his own uncle Frederick, the aged Duke of Holstein and Schleswig.

'He's declared himself King of Sweden,' snapped Gustav as he strode into the council tent, throwing down the letter.

'And why should this concern us, Your Grace? Our army is far superior-'

'It's not the armies I'm worried about.' He dropped into a seat and passed a hand across his haggard face. 'If he wins this war- and I bloody well think not- then we have a problem on our hands. The Hanseatic League.' Finland did not reply for a moment. The League's main priority was securing trade deals for its merchants- in short, making money. Sweden as an independent country supported this plan far better than the rekindling of the Kalmar Union. But if there was one thing the Hanseatic League prized over money-

'You think they'll abandon us, because losing would mean their downfall.'

'Exactly.' He turned and spat into the earth. 'Cowards.'

'Then we pay them more.' To Finland, it was the best, and frankly only solution. Money seemed to be the sole thing that aristocrat and merchant alike desired, far above holding to any honour they might have had. _Though it is easier for us nations. Our every expense is paid for by the crown, so we can afford to be honourable._ But Gustav simply smiled- a thin, bitter gesture.

'I know my history better than most. It didn't work with the Danish, when Æthelred wanted to be rid of Cnut. People are less barbaric these days, but the principle still stands: no matter how much you pay someone, they always come back for more.'

'Not if you get rid of them first.' Finland's voice was soft and cruel. He found himself surprised, but not unpleasantly so. 'Cnut conquered England in the end. Then he took all the riches for himself, regardless of whatever Æthelred had given him before.' His sharp gaze met Gustav's bewildered one. 'My brothers were there, Your Grace. They saw it happen. And I can assure you this- pay the Hanseatic League a large sum. As large as you need to keep them on our side. And when this war is done, when they next ask for money, whenever you feel it is right-' He dropped to a cold whisper- '-eliminate them.' Gustav's throat worked furiously as he made his decision.

'I won't have to,' he said at last, standing.

'Why-'

'Because I'll be a real king by then. Crowned and anointed. They won't be able to challenge a king.' _So,_ thought Finland in despair. _It has happened again. Just as I dreaded and denied._ He waited until Gustav had left before he let his head drop into his hands. No matter how many kings went by, how noble, wise and prudent they were, all fell prey to the seductive scent of power. And on this occasion, it had happened just as the crucial point approached.

He stood stoic and silent to watch Gustav take the holy oath in Strängnäs. The king's voice sounded richly throughout the cathedral, once again showcasing his uncanny talent for oration when most of the time his speech was low and quiet. A hymn was sung afterwards. Finland did not know the words, but he caught the language, which was Latin. _At last the brutal Scandinavia falls victim to southern fashions._ The royal families had all learnt Latin in their childhoods, and it was the adminstrative language of Europe- but somehow neither of those things quashed Finland's dislike for it. The pronounciation was lilting, almost musical. Nothing like the familiar, rough cadences of Swedish or Danish. And worlds away from his own mother tongue.

'Appointed by God, they said to me.' announced Gustav brightly as they rode. 'The Hanseatic League, that is. Did you know?'

'I did not, Your Grace.' Finland was forced to reply. 'You have my congratulations.'

'And I have made an agreement with Lübeck and the other Hanseatic cities. That should keep them on our side for a while longer.'

'Very good, Your Grace.' Neither of them commented on Finland's suggestion regarding how to deal with the League.

'The Danish have also agreed to give me free entry into Stockholm.' Gustav's face was clear of any worry, light and untroubled as he travelled through the morning mists. But Finland sensed a trap.

'Your Grace, they are not an easily defeated people. You may tear away as much land and power as you like, but they will still hold on. There is likely some plan in place-

'Have no fear, they are already half-starved from siege. Besides, King Frederick himself ordered the surrender, mere months after he declared himself head of the Kalmar Union. Funny what putting things in perspective can do to a man, hmm?' Finland made a non-commital noise of agreement. He was not so sure about King Gustav's new persona. He was jovial, postive- too positive- with a knack for irritating solely Finland. Naturally, the people adored him.

But Finland put up with it. He kept his smile wide as they paraded into Stockholm on Midsummer's Day, amongst hordes of cheering Swedes and the odd blank-faced Dane. Formal celebrations were held, state banquets, the keys of the city handed over by the Danish commander on a velvet cushion- and still he smiled. There had been no sign of Sweden. He could still be in Västerås, but Finland doubted he would want to miss his king's return. _So why is he avoiding me?_ Sometimes he fancied he glimpsed a flash of blond hair, or stern blue eyes peering at him through trees. There was never anything to be seen. The court moved the the Kronor palace, and Finland was given the most luxurious suite of rooms he had ever laid eyes upon. _And yet...I am not completely happy. Not without him._ He blushed at the thought, plucking absent-mindedly at his new silk sheets. Council meetings were held. Feasts continued well into the early hours. Time passed slowly in those days, a gilded trickle of honey that stretched into one gloriously lackadaisical celebration. Even Gustav could been seen to laugh, where before he had preferred sly comments and brief smiles. _It is like one of Iceland's fairytales. Perfect- but not quite real._

After two months, news arrived that several strongholds in Finland still held out in Frederick's name. Reclaiming them soon became a job for Finland himself. He got to know his little legion, learnt their strengths and weaknesses, how best to deploy them in battle. _Gustav is training me to command. He thinks that Sweden will never recover again_. But the night before he was due to leave, exhausted and aching from a long day in the training yard, Finland received an unexpected visitor.

'Come in,' he called out, hearing a soft knock upon the door. Dusk had fallen, and his lanterns were still cold, so Finland only caught a shadow as someone entered. 'Yes?'

'Tino. 'S'me.' A gasp was thrust from him.

'Ruotsi? Is it truly you?' Finland struck his tinderbox with trembling hands, at last creating a feeble flame which he shoved into the nearest candle wick. Sweden's face came into view. It was impassive, as usual, but with an air of just-holding-on that Finland recognised in himself.

'Yes.'

'Well- oh, where have you- please, sit. Have a seat.' His words came out in the wrong order, jumbled up. Sweden merely smiled.

'Got s'mthing t'ask you.' he said. He inhaled deeply, staring down at his clasped hands. 'Don't r'member that night. 'Nothin. Wha- what happ'ned?' It took Finland a moment to realise what he had just said. But when he did, the revelation was crushing. How long- how many weeks, months, had Sweden waited, speech returning at a snail's pace, simply to ask him that? He thought back to the night they had fled Copenhagen.

'Denmark hit you. Do you remember that?' Sweden shook his head. He had flinched a little at Denmark's name, but otherwise remained prone.

'All right. Well- he did. That's why you're- why you have some problems now. Like seeing. Talking.' Finland expected wild rage, the fury of a former Viking. Silence was all he got.

'And- and then- we left. Got on a ship, never looked back.' He smiled at the memory.

'Den?' The word was, ironically, like a dagger to his heart.

You're sure you want me to tell you?' Another nod. Finland did not know why he was asking. Wild horses would not keep Sweden from the truth. 'I stabbed him.' he blurted out, face falling into his hands. 'I'm sorry- he was your brother, your revenge- and still alive too-

'Good.'

'What?'

'Good that y'stabbed him. 'nd- and that he's alive.' It seemed to Finland perfectly natural- to reach out and take Sweden's hand in both of his own, let strong arms envelop him in a hug. What did not feel natural was his regret they had not gone further afterwards.

Sweden went with them to Finland the next day. He never revealed if it was an order from the king, or if he had simply decided by himself, but Finland was glad of his company regardless. The sieges proved to be dull affairs. He conversed with the opponents in their shared tongue, at least more often than not coaxing out a surrender. On the rare occasions where it was refused, the losses were minimal on both sides. _Boring,_ he thought to himself. Yet the last castle was not boring at all. A full army of Danes rode to meet them, and suddenly the little party had a fight on their hands. They were better fed and prepared, but the Danish had numbers on their sides. But when Sweden rode into the fray, any doubts of Finland's dissipated immediately. For Sweden was an utter fury. He fought with a vigour unlike his customary composure in battle, yelling war cries at the top of his lungs until the enemy was dead or deserted. Finland found himself liking this new fiery Sweden very much indeed. He expressed as much to him- and one day longing looks and brief hand-clasps turned into more, much more. It was snowing hard on the day of their departure. Finland took one look out of the window, and decided they would be better off waiting out the winter. So he returned gladly to Sweden's arms- to the one place that felt more like home than his own country. _At long last, he is mine. And I am his._


	10. Chapter 10

**Here's chapter 10! Hope you like it :D I will be updating every 2-3 days now, for definite (until school comes back) Enjoy! Please review? :D**

There was a hole where his heart had once been. It did not hurt exactly, not like the dull throb of his stab wound, but it was _cold_. This was a cold that numbed his entire body, spreading to his mind until every word felt false, and he was floating, detached, above what was warm and real. Denmark knew he had to remember. And yet it was easier, a thousand times easier, to just let go. To forget. _When I forget, I start to drink, and then it starts to hurt..._ These days, he did not dare touch alcohol. It would offer him sweet release for a while, then cram an iron helmet across his mind so all he could see was the life leaving Sweden's eyes, Finland's knife darting in and out. _Smile_ , he told himself. Smiling hurt his face, and the facade was so bitter he wanted to cry. But Iceland always beamed back. He laughed, ran about, lived each day in a rose-tinted haze, things that somehow filled the hole inside Denmark. Norway did that too. Just being there was enough; to hold him, to stare into those melancholy blue eyes and see sweet truth, could have completed Denmark again. Except there was a hole in Norway too. He kept his hidden, between layers of practiced poise, so deep it almost seemed natural. But he spoke of his homeland more often now, of the frosted peaks and sweeping valleys, of lakes wide as whole cities and a sky brought to life with dancing sheets of light. He spoke with love- longing, even. _Someday, we'll return,_ Denmark would find himself thinking. But he never voiced the thought. _Because if we went there, Norway might never return._ What did his country, pretty as it might be, with its long beaches and sapphire seas, have over a land where the very ground hummed with magic? So he kept Norway close, and held him each night in guilt.

These days meetings were depressing affairs. In each one the king brought news of more Swedish victories, their own dwindling treasury, and the repercussions of the crushing loans they had taken from the Hanseatic League. Reclaiming lost lands became a mere dream. Money was the problem now- money, and aquiring it.

'We still control both sides of the Øresund Sound,' pointed out Norway. 'We should raise shipping taxes, or impose a harsher deal on the Swedish side.' King Frederick did not look up from his steepled fingers. He was a solemn man, given to bouts of depression, and had taken up his nephew's crown reluctantly.

'They've already conquered Scania,' said Denmark, drawing absent-minded circles on his parchment. 'Doing that would only provoke an invasion, and we're powerless to stop them.' Norway frowned.

'Your Grace, how many operable warships are there in the harbour?'

'Twenty, perhaps. Not enough to ward off an attack.'

'We won't be using them for that.' He pulled out a scroll, covered in densely written numbers. 'This is the revenues and profits of the harbour in the past six months. We are still bringing in money, but it is less and less each month. Soon we'll be paying for trade ourselves.'

'Then we have to raise taxes-'

'With respect, Your Grace, there are other ways of raising money. Denmark is a sea nation- why not use that to our advantage? The city already trades with Germany and France.' Norway's fingers drummed a dull beat onto the table.

'East.' Denmark was surprised by his own voice. He could not remember the last time he had put forward ideas in a meeting, let alone good ones. 'We go east. That's what the Swedes did to get rich, before the Kalmar Union. They were forced to join it because of the succession, not any financial problems.'

'Exactly.' He exchanged a smile with Norway; they had the same thoughts, same instincts, unlike their beaten-down king. Frederick spread his hands wide.

'You can take the warships and dress them up as merchant boats, but what happens if we're attacked? There is nothing to stop the pretender Gustav from expanding his kingdom.' Their smiles soured. _Oh, but there is something. Our sweet brothers._ Of course, that rested upon the slim possibility that Sweden and Finland still harboured some affection for them. Denmark could think of nothing his brother would like better than to pay back six hundred years in kind and take everything. He tried to picture his life under Swedish rule. Gloating at the start, definitely, followed by the endless I'm-better-than-you struggle that never truly left siblings. _Fuck it. We'll elope up north before the bastard can find us_. A glow entered his face at the word 'elope', and Denmark hastily looked away from Norway. But running away- with Iceland, of course- was a thousand times more appealing than waiting around for Sweden to conquer them.

'That is a risk we shall simply have to take, Your Grace. I hear the grain trade in Poland and Netherlands is flourishing particularly.'

'Then trade with them,' spat the king. 'But you're my army commander,' he said, stabbing a finger at Denmark. 'The defence of this country is up to you if Gustav Vasa decides to invade.' A sick feeling curled up in his stomach. Suddenly the romantic running-away plan did not seem so daring after all.

'I shall protect Denmark with my life. You have my word.' _It_ is _my life, you miserable bastard._

'And I will send four ships to Amsterdam.' said Norway. 'We will invite more countries to trade with us, and bring in greater profits. I assure you, Your Grace, Denmark will be a rich and powerful nation again in no time.' Frederick merely grunted.

'Very well. Do as you please.' He stood abruptly and left.

'You can be honey-tongued when it pleases you, Nor. I have to admit I never knew.' said Denmark when the door swung shut. Norway shrugged.

'Kings always want you to kiss their boots and praise them to the heavens, even if they don't know it themselves. I simply told him what he wanted to hear.'

'So that's it,' said Denmark, slumping back in his chair. 'We start selling a few more things, and hope our beloved Berwald doesn't come after us with his new rebel friends.'

'I wanted you to be in charge of the new investments,' said Norway mildly. 'We've gained enough leeway to start asking more of the Hanseatic League. You'll control taxes, which ships are permitted into harbour- and trade in Malmö. I'll deal with the king and my own country.' He stared for a moment, mouth hanging open a little. Norway had never been remotely interested in politics before, making suggestions only when it was necessary. But now he showed skill, knowledge- even enjoyment.

'Then I'll do it,' said Denmark, regaining his composure. It was worth it for the smile that broke out across Norway's face.

'I knew you would.'

His world was transformed into one of boats and merchants, holding endless councils with the Hanseatic League, where all they did was complain about unfair taxes and demand to see the king. 'He is indisposed' became Denmark's go-to excuse in such situations. He got them drunk, plied them with fine food and the castle comforts, then sent them off the next morning, slightly hungover and bewildered. Most days went like that. But sometimes, a day dawned where the air was cool and sharp, sky rose-kissed and cloudless. Denmark would don his cloak and walk amongst the people of the sea. _My people._ This was his earliest memory, all he knew before he knew words and faces and thoughts- a rippling mirror of blue, beautiful in its treachery. The sea never frightened him like it did others. Iceland always cowered at big waves, even on land, and Norway betrayed his fear only by the tense set of his face. _Never me._ It was his first love, his silent friend. _And the sea will never leave me_. He walked past the fish markets, salt winds whipping the stench of that morning's catch into his face. Fishwives gutted all manner of sea creatures with cruel, fast knives and even faster hands. They chatted as they worked, in the sailor-speak used around these parts. Denmark picked it up quickly enough. He had been a rough-voiced Viking once, and it was no trouble to slip back into that thick accent to converse with the locals. His eyes closed, and he lifted his face to the breeze. Somewhere, a sea shanty was being sung; its tune floated over strangely, like the cries of a dozen mermaids. _I used to sing like that. Only my songs were different, tales of murder and magic._ Denmark hummed as he continued along the quayside. He accepted two oysters from a scrawny boy pushing a barrow, drinking in everyone and everything until he reached the harbourmaster's tent.

Inside it stank of beer and fish, but in his opinion those were good smells.

'Come for the Swede's letter, have you?' The harbourmaster was a lean, weatherbeaten man, with wolf-grey hair cut short and a gold tooth. He had been captain of the Danish fleet once. _Not that I am supposed to know that. And neither will he remember the boy who pulled him back onto deck when he fell overboard fighting English pirates._ The boy had been old even then, an experienced seafarer despite his appearance. Denmark shook his head to clear the memories.

'Yes. The king has been waiting long enough now.' Raising taxes over in Malmö was not as simple as hoped previously. The Swedish harbourmaster had insisted upon seeing a scroll signed in King Frederick's own hand before he allowed any changes. This was his letter of agreement- or otherwise. Denmark took the paper and unfolded it.

'Well, what's it say?' He proffered it to the harbourmaster, but he waved it away with a gnarled hand. 'Can't read. Never bothered to learn.'

'He is satisfied that His Grace authorised the tax raise, and consents to doing so in hope of avoiding future conflicts.' A rush of warmth spread through Denmark. 'We are free to control the Øresund Sound, as it has always been.' _My first victory, albeit a small one._ He stood and thanked the harbourmaster, ducking under his tentflap. Cold air instantly whipped Denmark in the face. But the letter in his hand chased away any chill. _I am good at this,_ he realised. _Good at understanding the minds of fishermen, good at negociating with people that are sailors and merchants, not kings and lords._

Each day, he reported back to his king that the debts were slowly being repaid. They gave the Hanseatic League what was owed and sent them back to Lübeck at long last. The Dutch merchants proved to be particularly enthusiastic about the new arrangement. They brought in ships full of grain and other crops that could not be grown in the cold climate of Scandinavia, trading them for winter furs and other northern goods. Revenues began to climb. Denmark himself supervised the opening of a new brewery, from which dark ales and strong spirits were sold. Norway advised the king daily- but he was making money.

'What have you got to smile about?' said Norway one night, as Denmark collapsed onto the bed next to him.

'Hmm?' He had not even noticed he was smiling. Denmark pressed a finger to his lips, feeling the strange upturned shape. It soon curved back into a frown. 'Just the harbour. It's working, Nor, it really is.' He turned to face Norway, leaning on one arm. 'We're making money. Not just from taxes- there's new trades happening every day, from everywhere in Europe.'

'I told you it would.'

'I know you did.' He stayed silent for a moment, watching as Norway extinguished the candles with a series of quick pinches. 'Nor?' There was a sigh from the gloom.

'Yes, Den?'

'Do you still think about- about _them?_ ' The bed sank slightly as Norway lowered himself onto it.

'Sometimes. Why?'

'Soon it'll be a year.' He did not need to say what happened a year ago. They both had memories of that night. _The scars have not yet faded- both mental and physical._ 'And I thought- well, I wondered if we should do something. To commemorate it.'

'You want to celebrate the anniversary of our brothers' escape?' Norway's voice was derisive through the darkness, but he slid his arms around Denmark nevertheless.

'Not celebrate. Just remember.' said Denmark quietly. 'You told me I had to, that day in the garden.'

'I know,' mumbled Norway. 'But what would we do? It's in three days, if memory serves.' _That is nothing to do with having a good memory._ He knew the truth- knew that wounds could still ache after they had faded, that the pain of them demanded to be felt until there was no choice but to remember.

'We'll think of something.' Denmark closed his eyes, concentrating on Norway's warmth beside him. But already old thoughts were beginning to creep in. _You couldn't keep them here. You couldn't save yourself, and you couldn't protect the others. Worthless. Weak. No wonder they left._ Norway had fallen asleep, so he did not stir when tears soaked into his hair. _They left because of you. You. Your fault, no one else's,_ my fault. And when he finally drifted off, his sleep was plagued by nightmares, bloodied hands smearing faces with guilt, a neverending scream that pierced his ears until he sat bolt upright in bed. Denmark did not dare close his eyes again that night.

'As you can see, Your Grace, trade with the Dutch has brought in a good profit. The grain was sold in Aalborg and Aarhus-'

'Yes, very good. Show me the next.' Denmark shuffled through his papers and brought out the next document. This one detailed the Polish merchants' interest in fur, and how it had benefitted the economies of both countries. It was one of his best memories- studying his account books, only to discover that all expenses had been paid. From that day, profits had only risen. _Sweden may be powerful, but we are rich._ That at least counts for something. With money, they could rebuild their empire. They could become strong again.

'There have been no threats from the Swedish?' King Frederick's voice was stern, if a little nervous.

'None whatsoever. The harbourmaster of Malmö recognised that we held control over the Øresund, and allowed any changes to be made that Your Grace might wish for.'

'Good.' said the king, nodding. 'Is there anything else?' He used a tone that he no doubt thought was subtle, but Denmark had long been wise to the different voices of rulers. This one meant _you've told me we're rich again, now get out._

'One thing. A monk called Hans Tausen has been arrested in Vilborg, for preaching Lutheran ideas to the townspeople.' There was no need to say any more. The Pope reigned supreme from the Vatican, just below him a plethora of bishops and the Holy Roman Emperor. A Protestant preacher could prove dangerous; the common people were easily swayed, caught up on whichever new idea had swept the country. Frederick nodded again, but he did not say anything.

'What would you have done with him, Your Grace?'

'Leave him.' Denmark's eyes widened incredulously.

'You cannot leave him! Converted Lutherans will never accept a Catholic king. Have this preacher driven out, or execute him!' He knew it sounded cruel, but sometimes cruelty was the only way. _They used to burn pagans, whip and torture them. And after a while there weren't any pagans._ That had been hundreds of years ago; the principle still applied. The king's cold eyes locked onto his own.

'You say money is what we should focus on if Denmark is to be powerful again.'

'And I stand by it, Your Grace.'

'The Church is costing me money. The people pay tithes, and complain about it. Only the so-called holy men see a single øre of those tithes, whilst we haggle like fishwives trying to fill the treasury. And the Protestants- their chapels are plain, stripped of any decoration. No money spent. Do you understand me?'

'Well- yes, Your Grace. I do.' Denmark was left standing idle, a sheaf of papers in his hand and the other clutching his forehead. A headache had begun to throb there as soon as Frederick began his mad talk of admitting Lutherans. _And why should I care? I still wear Thor's hammer around my neck, where no one can see it._ The constant battles of Christianity meant little and less to a pagan Viking. He abandoned his papers and left the room. Outside, Iceland sat on a chair, legs dangling above the floor.

'What's that you're drawing?'

'Dan!' Denmark was subjected to one of Iceland's death-grip hugs, the piece of paper crushed between them. 'It's boring here. Can we go home?'

'In a minute.' He flattened out the paper with a hand- and stopped dead. Five stick figures, drawn with a child's erratic style. But they were instantly recogniseable. The tallest was flat-haired, stern. One had wild spikes for hair. Another wore a scribbled cross. One smiled widely. And the smallest- _by process of elimination, I'd guess it's Iceland._

'Ice...Ice, what is this?' asked Denmark, trying to keep his voice soft.

'My family.' Iceland pointed to each one with a small finger. 'SvÍ and you, Storebror, and Fin, then me.' His grin was gap-toothed, innocent.

'Ice- Sweden and Finland don't live with us anymore. They're not part of- of the family. It's me, you and Nor. No one else.' He did his best to smile back, but Iceland was not convinced.

'Noregur said they'd just gone away for a while. Even if they've gone, they're still part of the family. Aren't they?' Denmark wanted to give him the truth, he really did. Yet lying was almost worse. He took Iceland's hand, more for his own comfort than anything.

'They left because they wanted to, Emil. They weren't happy anymore.' His voice was thick with unshed tears by the last word.

'But why? We're happy now, aren't we?'

'Yes, of course.' It was only half a lie.

'So when will they come back?' Iceland's eyes were wide with expectance, their splashes of silver more noticeable in the lamplight.

'Never.' The word left his mouth before he could stop it, and Denmark hugged Iceland close in a futile attempt to redeem himself. 'But I swear, I'll never leave you. Norway will never leave you.'

'Promise?'

'Promise.'

It was late when he walked into the library that night, Iceland asleep after his story. Denmark sat down and poured himself a flagon of beer. He took a sip- and heat spread through him, igniting dead nerves until everything felt brighter, better, more alive. Soon the flagon was empty. He refilled it, and was just about to take a gulp when Norway's pale head appeared around the door.

'I know, I shouldn't-' Denmark's voice trailed away as he watched Norway grab another flagon, filling it to the top. He drank half of it and sat down, grimacing a little at the burst of alcohol.

'Wow,' he said softly. 'Who upset you?' Norway shot him a deadpan look.

'I had a meeting with His Grace after you left,' he said, twisting the words 'His Grace' until they were no longer an honour. 'Gustav Vasa wrote to him personally. They want us to sign some treaty for their independence, because apparently humiliating us in battle isn't secure enough.' There was no humour in his laugh.

'Defeating _us_ , Nor?' said Denmark softly. Norway reddened. That was the one thing he could not control- he might maintain his icy facade for days on end, never showing even the cracks of a smile, but he had no power to keep from blushing when Denmark chose the right words.

'Yes, us. We're still in a union-' He broke off, shaking his head. Denmark took the opportunity to refill both their flagons.

'Skål.' they muttered in unison, touching the two cups together and drinking.

'Today's the day,' said Norway. 'Exactly a year ago, five became three.' He toasted an imaginary audience.

'What a day.'

'What a day indeed.' They drank to many things after that- bastard brothers, dark ale, that one fucker Denmark killed on the ice lake.

'To the union of Danmark-Norge!' slurred Norway a few hours after midnight. 'Both literal and figurative!' Denmark was too drunk to make a clever joke, so he took another gulp of beer. At this point quite a lot had slopped onto his tunic, but he was past caring.

'To Cnut, the old bastard. Hope Valhalla's nice.' They drank.

'Good Queen Margaret!' They drank.

'Getting drunk!'

They were woken early the next morning, so early the buzz of intoxication had not completely left Denmark. He dressed with as much care as shaking hands could take, dashing down into the courtyard. Norway was already there, arms folded and face blank.

'Don't talk,' he muttered. 'Don't say a word. My head's about to explode.' The boat journey to Malmö was not a long one, an hour at most. That proved to be enough time for Norway to empty his stomach over the side, however. 'I was a Viking,' he mumbled. 'What have I become, Den?' But their laughter died away when land came into view. An envoy with a grimace stern enough to match Sweden's greeted them, his bow to the king small and perfunctory.

'Follow me, please.' _I didn't know all Sve's people were so stoic. Thought he was the unlucky exception._ They were given horses after a short walk. The king barely concealed his look of distaste, though he set off with not a word of complaint. Soon Malmö came into view- a small place as of yet, but with the skeletons of buildings under construction just visible through wisps of cloud. Their entry through the gates was not what Denmark had imagined. In his mind he saw a triumphant Sweden, perhaps even smiling, ready to receive his defeated brother. But there was only silence. People stared at them from windows, doorways, children in the street stopped playing to ogle the visitors. _A ghost town. They are not used to independence yet_. Gustav's royal crest flew from every tower, yet none of the people looked victorious. They were tired, dirty, pale-faced- like all the other common people he knew. _Kings come and go, promising that things will be better. But all they really want is a throne._

In the end, King Gustav did not even meet with them. They were hustled into a dark little room, where two Swedish lords waited with the treaty.

'Your Grace,' they greeted the king. Norway and Denmark did not get so much as a not. 'His Majesty has agreed to cede the lands of Scania, Gotland, and Blekinge, if the independence of the Kingdom of Sweden will be acknowledged by the Danish government.' _His Majesty, is it now?_ No doubt Gustav, who was no more entitled to the throne than the next landowner, believed that such a title would somehow grant him more nobility.

'Very well,' said Frederick. 'And I understand that there is to be no interference in my control over the Øresund Sound?'

'That is correct.' Denmark was surprised, though he hid it. Those terms were good- too good. Any fool could see they had ulterior motives. The hard part was working out just what those ulterior motives were.

'Then- then may I see the treaty?' It was passed over, and the three of them read it with well-trained eyes.

'Something's not right,' muttered Norway in Old Norse. The king shot him an irritated look, but let it slide.

'I know.' Yet things were rarely as suspicious as they seemed. This Gustav had been one step above a commoner; now, with immense power, he was most likely trying to exert his kingly generosity to his former rulers. 'But there's nothing we can do, unless you want another war.' Norway stared at him for one long moment- then nodded. They wrote their names just below Frederick's own sweeping signature. _Never mind. It's only forever._ They observed the necessary etiquette of a meeting, shaking hands with the Swedes and thanking them for the terms.

'King Gustav invites you to his feast tonight,' said one of them cordially. 'He hopes this can be the start of a new, peaceful era between our two kingdoms.' Frederick nodded. _We gave you peace,_ thought Denmark coldly. _We gave you a union, stronger than anything Scandinavia's likely to see again. And you tossed it back in our faces._ But he made himself smile, tried not to recoil when they exchanged handshakes. This was far from over.

The feast was a merry affair, with His Apparent Majesty Gustav Vasa, King of Sweden, presiding over the festivites. He laughed loudest and longest, made the best jokes, but never looked a fool from his high seat. That was a talent Denmark had to admire. _He laughs with the people, but he is never one of them. Always regal. Always a king_. He found himself staring into the empty recess of his golden goblet. Norway nudged him.

'Drink, until it feels like you did the right thing.'

'Have you adopted that philosophy yourself?' It appeared that Norway had; his face was flushed, breath tinged with a peculiar blend of beer and wine. _I may try it_. Denmark poured in a fine-looking red until the cup was half-full, then topped it off with the pale ale favoured by nobles. The result was a watery-looking pinkish liquid. Norway wrinkled his nose.

'You're going to drink that?'

'Why not? You've been doing the same, just from different glasses.' He raised his goblet to the rafters, then drained it in one. All it did was numb his mind a little further, and leave a strange taste on his tongue.

'Interesting.' But Norway did not hear. He was staring at something in the distance, eyes squinting through the haze of the hall.

'Den...Den, look.' He pointed with a shaking hand. Denmark's eyes trailed down rows of drunkards at the lower tables, his own people sat sourly beside their guffawing Swedish counterparts- to two people in a corner. They stood in a thin beam of light from the only window, hair silvered and faces glowing. One was much taller than the other, with a pair of seeing glasses balanced on his nose. The other smiled up at him adoringly. _I know that smile. I know that look, that golden hair, that tall bastard._

'Lillebror,' he murmured. And there, blatantly, as though nothing in the world could touch them, their faces met. It was tender. Loving. Sweet. A sudden lump rose in Denmark's throat. He turned to his Norge, a thousand words clamouring at his lips. They all fell away when he saw Norway's smile. _I remember the first time I saw it. A winter's night somewhere under the stars, before we had cities with names and kings with crowns. Beautiful._

'Had to happen, didn't it?' said Norway softly. Denmark reached for his hand under the table. He squeezed it tight, glad that this etheral being was his, this creature of ice and magic.

'I suppose it did.' Norway pulled him closer, a hand in his hair.

'I'm going to say something,' he whispered. ' _Jeg elsker deg._ ' Denmark froze. This was different. Not like the ' _Jeg glad i deg_ ' they told each other every morning and night, the constant reminder of a constant. ' _Jeg elsker deg_ ' meant _I am yours, you are mine,_ meant all of their centuries together, every memory treasured and saved- meant _I am in love with you_. Deeper. More serious.

'And I you,' breathed Denmark, closing his eyes to hold back tears. They seeped out anyway. 'Do you want-' Cool fingers pressed against his lips.

'We should leave them, for tonight.' said Norway. 'It's not our place.' Yet once it would have been. Kongeriget Danmark, the great North Sea Empire, powerful enough to decide the fates of entire countries. _No longer._

'I suppose I've lost the right to decide who controls who.' he replied ruefully.

'That you have. But-' Norway leaned even closer- '-I will always be here.'

And, like a flower unfurling its petals, like the rays of a golden dawn, Denmark felt the first prickles of true happiness rise within him.


	11. Chapter 11

**I'm really sorry this is late :( I had awful writer's block but now it's done! Also, from now on I will be adding in places and times to the story, which should hopefully make things clearer :D Enjoy and please review!**

 **Eastern Finland, early in 1611**

From the day that the Treaty of Malmö was signed, Sweden's wealth and power only seemed to increase. Gustav proved to be a wise and capable ruler, cementing his relationship with the common people by introducing new tax reforms, and waging brave but tactical wars that filled their coffers further. He had enough noble blood in him to be accepted by the aristocracy, yet his years of riding and fighting and hiding with the peasant army forged a unique bond between them. A perfect reign, they would come to call it. Those of his sons were not so beneficial. Erik started out well, but his natural ambition soon spiralled into madness. John was wiser, cautious, and could be credited with soothing the enmity between Sweden's new Lutheran faith and the Catholic Church. And yet somehow, Sweden himself could not be entirely satisfied. He was tired of ending wars with truces and pacts, wanted real dominance over his own realm. _I am becoming like Denmark, he would think as he lay awake in bed. I have inherited his hunger to conquer, whilst his land falls into anonymity._ Things improved when John's son Sigismund took the throne in 1592. He was already King of Poland, a tried and trusted ruler. Sweden remembered thinking _this is the one. Sweden's Cnut the Great, only this time we shall keep our empire._ That was until the Polish revolted, proclaiming an Austrian duke their rightful king. Sigismund lost his crown in Poland, wasted years, money and men trying to win it back, returning to Stockholm only to find himself hated and deposed in favour of his uncle, the Duke Charles. Sweden faced a difficult choice on that day. A Catholic king, focus constantly wavering to Poland- or his more battle-hardened uncle, a true patriot. He liked to think he had chosen the better man. _Though neither offered much in the end._ Now Charles the Ninth was King of Sweden, betrayer of brother and nephew, yet more effective than either. At least, until recently.

Now he sat in a war tent, bruised and bloodied from half a hundred useless battles. The king- usurper to some- stood over him, a crumpled note in his hand.

'Your Grace,' said Sweden quietly. 'All is not lost.'

'But it is! With the tsar deposed, these years of fighting will all have been for nothing!' His face was seething behind its salt-and-pepper beard. Sweden did not bother to hold his gaze for long. The king's many shortcomings could be forgiven- his selfishness, obstinacy, cruelty- all in light of the fact that his sole aim was to build the Swedish empire that had been his father's dream.

'We conquered Estonia under your leadership, and held it.' He remembered the day well. Another nation, blond and bespectacled, so similar to Sweden it was almost eerie, yet spitting curses in a language not unlike Finland's. _But he knelt in the end, and now his land is ours. Tyranny can be beautiful._ 'Perhaps trying to take Livonia was out of our reach.'

'Nothing should be out of our reach,' stormed Charles, flinging theEnjoy paper aside. 'I rule the strongest empire the North has ever seen! We have the best army-

'-and the tiredest.' cut in Sweden. 'No sooner was Estonia ours than you set your sights on Livonia. I mean no disrespect, Your Grace, but your father always advised patience. We have ample time to take new lands.'

'They will fight if I command it. If I cannot have Livonia, then we will look elsewhere. Russia, perhaps, now the Tsar is gone.' Sweden did not know what to say to that. But it was blindingly obvious that if they could not conquer Livonia, then the vast empire of Russia was far beyond the skills of their army to hold. _Yet how do I tell him? He asks for advice, then shuns it when I tell him that he cannot always win._ He took off his glasses and rubbed them on the edge of his cloak, waiting to see if the king would speak again. There was only silence.

'What do you want, Your Grace?' he said after a moment.

'What do I want? Charles gave a half-laugh, half-snort, collapsing heavily onto a camp stool. 'Livonia. Lithuania. Poland. A Swedish empire to rival the strength of the Kalmar Union, tenuous as that may have been. Only I can't have that if the Polish rush in and take everything.

'Then don't let them.' Sweden clenched his fists to ward off the burgeoning frustration, though it became harder with every day this king reigned. 'Collect plunder, land, whatever it is you want, then return to Stockholm and find other lands to conquer.' In his opinion, this venture had been a little too far from home. Eastern Europe was fierce and proud, so it was only by the superiority of the Swedish army that they had managed to take Estonia at all. _Though I doubt we shall hold it much longer._ Charles nodded.

'Yes,' he said decisively, as though he had thought of it himself. 'Finland is my colony; we should take back those parts that the Russians stole away.' He rose again, armour rattling. 'I swear to you, this will be an empire even my father would have been honoured to rule.' With that, the king took his leave. _A little brash_ , thought Sweden. The truth was, Gustav Vasa would have been ashamed to see what his sons had made of his legacy. They fought impossible battles, fought each other, fought everything that moved in the belief that doing so would somehow expand their borders. _I have failed you. Forgive me._ He knelt and retrieved the discarded letter. _Flee,_ it read. _The Tsar has fallen. The Polish are coming. Leave whilst there is still time._ There was a jagged strike of ink at the bottom, as though the writer's hand had been forced away from its paper. Sweden knew they would never win a war against Poland, not in their current state. And he had just convinced his king to ride towards that war all the same.

Finland was still awake when he ducked under the flap of their shared tent. He sat on his camproll, arms encircling his knees and a melancholy cast to his face that sent a jolt of fear chasing down Sweden's spine.

'Fin,' he murmured, settling beside him.

'How was the meeting?'

'The meeting?' Sweden thought back to moments ago. He was not sure if their little exchange could really be considered a meeting, in all honesty. 'Frustrating. He talks of conquering great lands one moment, building this Swedish empire that is all anyone cares about these days.'

'And don't you care?' Finland's smile was tainted with something a little bitter that Sweden chose to ignore.

'Of course I care. It's what we've wanted for centuries. But with him leading-' He broke off, irony cold on his tongue. History did love to repeat itself in situations like these. 'He's the third son of a powerful father, and his brothers are remembered more fondly, even if one was a madman.'

'Erik was wise when he wanted to be,' said Finland, disconsolate.

'Exactly. But all younger brothers are like that- striving to be better than their elders, to prove themselves. That's all he's doing with this war.' _Like me_ , he thought, not daring to say it aloud. _I had a brother once, a brother who was better and stronger. He will be watching my every move, to see if I can survive without him._ And Sweden could survive alone- had done so for close on a century now- but the part of him that dreamt of old faces every night would disagree. Finland did not seem to be listening anymore. His eyes bored a hole into the thick tent canvas, for once cold and blank.

'Fin?'

'Hmm?'

'What do you think?' Finland turned back to face him, and Sweden forced a smile.

'Does it matter what I think?' He laughed humourlessly, hands raking through his hair. 'This is my land you're fighting over in some places. Neither you nor Russia can decide who it belongs to.'

'But wouldn't you rather-'

'I'd rather it belonged to me, Ruotsi! I take a gamble every time there's a new king. I sit in on council meetings, offer my advice, help devise strategies and battle plans. Some of them appreciate it. Most don't.'

'If you want to feel more valued-' Finland cut him off again with a raised hand and a shake of the head.

'What I want isn't important. I'm a colony, Berwald, and until that changes your rulers will never truly respect me.' He gave his signature smile, sad and sweet, fit to break Sweden's heart. 'Forgive me, Ruotsi.'

'You've done nothing wrong, Fin.'

'No. Not that.' Finland took a deep breath. 'Denmark never forgot Norway. Not in all their years together, and look at them now. A union- weaker than Kalmar, but it's lasted centuries.' An ugly heat reared its head inside Sweden, and suddenly he knew why Finland had asked to be forgiven.

'Don't say their names again. Please.'

'I have to, Ruotsi, or you'll never understand! Denmark treats Norway as an equal- yes, that may be due to other circumstances- but he's never rebelled. He was always trusted most by our kings in the past, regardless of the fact the union was under Denmark's name. Do you understand?'

'I understand.' At least Sweden thought he did- thought he could sympathise with the pain of being second best, the constant struggle of fighting to come out on top and be knocked down every time. 'Tino,' he whispered, taking both of Finland's hands. 'I would do anything for you. You know that.' Finland's smile tightened.

'Anything?' he breathed back. And in that _anything_ were volumes of words unsaid, the desire for an independent kingdom with its own ruler, freedom and equality that could never be found with the favour of someone else's king. Sweden knew all that, but he could not stop himself.

'Anything.'

 **Western Russia, Spring 1611, close to the Finnish border in Novgorod**

King Charles held true to his promise. He led the army east, to the fiefdoms of Finland still held in the Tsar's name, and captured them with little resistance. Foremost amongst these was the County of Kexholm. It boasted a large castle, ornamented by rich grounds, and Finland was pleased to have it back. _Yet it is not truly mine._ Sweden's flag flew from the ramparts, Sweden's king sat in the high throne there, and when they left for Russia, it was Sweden's promise of liberation the people believed in. The other cities had fallen more easily, so they rode into Novgorod as though already victorious. A shabby-looking envoy came to meet them.

'Your Grace,' he said, scanning the assembled armies with a nervous eye. 'I welcome you to Novgorod in the name of the tsar, whose rule we still accept here.' The king was not pleased by that.

'I thought he had been deposed?' He made a rather terrifying sight, high up on his horse in enamelled black armour. _Only I know the weak man behind the mask._

'He has indeed, Your Grace. But-' The tremour in his voice was all too audible- '-the magistrates have agreed to hear your words and house your men, until terms can be drawn up.'

'Good. I shall see them now.' Charles swung clumsily from his horse, beckoning to Sweden with a gloved hand. They strode after the timid envoy, Finland just behind. Novgorod was very much a Russian city. All the people they saw were rich, stumbling past in thick sables or embroidered silk. Buildings craned their lofty necks towards the sky, taller and more delicately elegant than anything Finland had seen before. This was not a city built to withstand sieges- it was a new city, a place of leisure. The concept seemed alien.

'In here, if you will.' The envoy ushered them towards a large square building with shuttered windows painted blue, gold embellishments shining through here and there. The king whipped his head around, calling for his guards. But the words fell away when he saw Finland standing there.

'I did not ask for you,' he said, voice thick with casual spite.

'Your Grace, please listen-'

'Go back to the camp. I will be done here shortly.' He turned back, so all Finland could see was the cruel curve of his armour.

'Let him stay.' The voice was low, unexpected. Sweden. 'He is eager to help, and you need his advice. I know that more than anyone.' Finland could almost see the curses sliding off his king's tongue. He grimaced in a sickening imitation of a smile, mouth curling grotesquely.

'Very well. He may stay, if he chooses.' Charles fixed him with a glare. His eyes were grey, the unfortunate colour of fishskin, and the message in them was clear enough. _You're not wanted here._ Finland mumbled an excuse and slipped away.

But later, sat alone by the Volkhov River, he regretted it deeply. To do that, to submit and flee- exactly what the king wanted- was to be defeated. And Finland did not even know which side he was on. He was torn between loyalties- to himself, selfish though it might have been; to Sweden, who only ever meant well; to his country, the place he had sworn to defend, to everyone who owned a part of him, not realising that it only served to tear him apart. _I cannot survive much longer like this._

'Tino.' He knew the voice- of course he did. Finland rose slowly, turning to confront his fate.

'What is it, Sweden?' Sweden flinched at that. Ever since they ran away, it had been 'Ruotsi' or 'Ber', 'Berwald' when he was being serious. 'Sweden' was cold, detached. Just what they had sworn not to be.

'The meeting's over. I thought you'd like to know what happened.' A lump clenched around Finland's throat, but he swallowed it. Sweden came to sit beside him.

'Go on.'

'They've agreed to let Prince Philip be the next tsar, if no aid comes from Moscow.' Finland almost laughed, until he saw how serious Sweden's face was. _This means everything to him. He will have his empire at last_. Yet Philip was a boy of ten, hardly suited to rule the colossal wastes of Russia. No doubt it appealed to Charles, for his sons to rule the entire northern hemisphere after he was gone.

'What else?' Sweden hesitated. He knitted his long fingers together, smoothing the calluses.

'Gold and little bits of land. Nothing much else. And-' A long breath whistled from him, like the howling voice of the wind. 'Fin, you were right. I should have listened.'

'What?' Panic clutched at Finland with cold hands. If Sweden- careful, reasoned Sweden- had made a mistake, then there was some great danger on the horizon.

'He did what I said,' whispered Sweden. 'He looked a little closer to home. He's- oh, Fin.'

'I know.' They sat in terrified silence, joined by their mutual fear and regret. The Kalmar Union was gone, swept away by the Treaty of Malmö. Yet it looked as though its successor was looming large.

 **Novgorod, Spring 1611**

'I am king!' declared the royal idiot on the platform. 'King of Sweden, Finland, Estonia, Russia.' A mighty cheer echoed from his army, spears rattling against shields. _What joy_ , thought Finland morosely. He stood with Sweden to the king's left, just in the shade of a building behind them. 'And now, King of the Lapps of Nordland!' The cheer that time was punctuated with some coarse but exuberant yells. They had good reason to be happy. The Lapps of Nordland were a Danish people by tradition, beholden to the crown of Denmark. For Charles to claim them was bold- and stupid. _He will be the downfall of us all. Unless he does himself a favour and dies._

'I know. My ruler is a fool as well.' came a voice from Finland's left. He spun around, hand flying to his dagger, thinking somehow that this stranger had heard his thoughts.

'I didn't think-' The stranger held up a hand. It was a man, tall and pale-haired, smiling with a warmth that did not quite reach his amethyst eyes. Abusrdly, he had a pink scarf knotted around his neck that seemed almost childish compared with the rest of his severe black attire.

'Please, come with me. I do not intend to harm you.' He spoke Swedish with a strong accent, each word clipped and careful. 'My name is Ivan Braginsky,' he said once they were round the corner. 'Yours is Tino Väinämöinen.'

'How do you-'

'If you will refrain from shouting. Your friend-' He jerked a large thumb at Sweden- '-does not look like he would be pleased to see you gone. So I will be quick.' Ivan dropped Finland's arm, smoothing down his dark greatcoat.

'You may call me Russia.' he said, smiling truly for the first time. _Russia_. Just like that, it all made sense.

'I am Finland.' But his initial uneasiness did not dissipate. It hovered around Finland's head like an ill-wishing angel, warning him that Russia was dangerous. _He is another nation. Surely he understands my predicament._

'Yes, you are. And I have something very important to tell you.' Russia did not bend from his great height, so Finland listened with his ears straining desperately. 'You must not allow your king to take my country.' His eyes were pleading, too soft and hopeful for a man of his stature. 'I- I have seen what happens to colonies. Day by day they weaken, becoming a part of their ruler. One day it will be too late for me.' A chill ran through Finland, though none of it made sense. _Denmark and Norway- they've been in a union for centuries. If what Russia says is true, then surely Norway would have faded away by now?_

'I don't understand,' he whispered. 'My brothers-'

'They are in a union, yes? This does not happen with unions, I know. But-' He broke off, shaking his head with a bitter smile.

'Who did you know?'

'My sisters. They cling on, but barely. I give them all the freedom I can, yet at the end of the day it is my ruler who decides. With the tsar gone...' Russia spread his hands wide.

'But- but... _how?'_

'Look at yourself, Finland. Your eyes are hollow, and you are thinner than my sword.' He lifted a hand, trying to ignore how it shook. The skin was pale and sallow, stretched tight across the bones. _Like a skeleton's._

'But how can I help you, if I can't help myself?' Russia's face became faraway, shoulders hunched despondently.

'Ensure that this treaty does not go through. In any way you can. And try to save yourself, before it is too late.' He smiled again, setting off into the shadows with his hands folded neatly behind his back. Finland was just turning back to Sweden when he heard Russia's voice call out:

'I think we shall come to know one another rather well, Tino Väinämöinen.' When he looked over his shoulder, Russia had disappeared. _And it sounded like a threat, no matter how much I might deny it._ He shivered- looked into Sweden's eyes, and could not force even the barest hint of a smile.

 **Stockholm, early Summer 1611**

 _What do I want?_ Finland kept asking himself on the long road back to Stockholm. His answer was always the same twisted mess. _I want the strength to stand on my own two feet, but Sweden will not give it to me. And I fear I will not be strong enough alone, so I want to stay with him also. And yet I desire freedom so much it is irrational._ His condition deteriorated further throughout those long days of riding. He developed a cough that was always worrying the back of his throat, making his eyes stream and his whole body ache hot and cold. Sweden was caring and attentive, but he did not truly understand. Finland tried to excuse it. The Swedish empire was on the rise- of course he would spend more time celebrating, not in their little shared tent. He pretended to be asleep whenever Sweden crawled in, drunk, his tightly wrapped furs a subtle rejection.

'Look, Fin, we're home!' Sweden raised a hand aloft, gesturing at the marble sprawl that was Stockholm. It had grown rich and beautiful over the decades, revelling in cultures that had been hidden away in the times of the Kalmar Union. A capital city to be proud of- and Finland could not remember the last time he visited his own.

They were given little time to rest once they arrived back. King Charles scheduled a council meeting for the next morning, where he detailed his plans for collecting taxes from Norwegian ports.

'The Danes are weak, and I am king of Nordland. We shall tax ports from Tromsø northwards, taking enough to repay the Sound Dues that have been charged unlawfully for centuries.' Even Sweden looked a little uncertain at that.

'Your Grace,' he began. 'The treasuries have never been fuller, thanks to the war in the East. There is no need to tax Norway's ports. You may write to King Christian, but-'

'The Sound Dues are outright robbery,' insisted Charles. 'I will not have my people suffer any longer from unnecessary payments.'

'But taxing Tromsø is unnecessary payment,' Finland dared to say. 'This will only provoke them, Your Grace, and the last thing we need is another war.'

'Perhaps. But they are weak, as I have said. We can defeat them easily.'

He would still not listen, even when the other councillors, who usually agreed with their king on everything, implored him to change his mind. Finland received a blank and impersonal letter from Norway, asking as a fellow nation to suppress his monarch's idiocy. It was signed by Denmark as well, in a small and reluctant scrawl. He never told Sweden about the letter. But it did not matter, because in the next day's meeting Charles tossed a letter of his own onto the table. From the Danish king, he told them dismissively. Nothing more was said on the matter after that. _If not even another king can sway him, none of us can_. Finland's days now were spent dreading the threat of war in stuffy council rooms, pretending that the Swedish Empire was functioning and throwing half-hearted compliments at the king. _This was meant to be a better life. That was why we left._ But all it brought was suffering, and a long line of failed ventures.

A feast was held on the night their first taxes returned from Tromsø.

'To the Swedish Empire!' declared King Charles, golden goblet held high.

'The Swedish Empire!' roared the court back at him. Finland raised his own cup and drained it in one. He saw Sweden do the same to his right. The ale burned and bubbled, making his head spin until Finland could hardly remember why he was sad. After that the flagon did not leave his hand. There were numerous toasts made, to old enemies and new friends, peace at last in Scandinavia, and the golden era that Sweden was surely entering. Finland ignored them all. Twice he fell asleep, head drooping onto his shoulder, only to wake with a clearer head than before and spend the next hour clouding it up again. The feast continued until well after midnight. Through the tall windows, he could just see night's dark mantle spreading out across the sky, stars flickering like far-off diamonds. The moon was full and round, silvering the ground and forcing some sort of calm into Finland. _The same moon, no matter where you look from._ He closed his eyes, remembering the low log house in the forests of his home. It was a hard life, but happy. _No kings, no courts. Only me, and the open sky._ A voice in his ear shattered the reverie.

'Fin,' it said. 'Come on.' He struggled from his chair, the alcohol making itself felt, and followed Sweden from the hall. King Charles was there, a messenger in travel-stained clothes beside him. The king had a folded piece of parchment in his hand, which he brandished furiously at them.

'Read it.' he hissed. Sweden took the paper and smoothed it out.

'Danish-Norwegian forces have occupied the town of Kalmar,' he read in a level voice. 'They have raised their flag in the name of Christian IV, to protest against the taxes in Tromsø. And-' Only then did he falter.

'Go on,' said Charles, grinning madly.

'They have declared war on the Kingdom of Sweden, and all its dependencies...Your Grace, forgive me, but-'

'Oh, I know what you're going to say. It could have been avoided, if only I followed your advice. And where would we be if I had? Considerably poorer, for a start.' He leaned closer, so only Sweden and Finland could hear. 'He's your brother, isn't he?' Sweden's face tightened. 'Didn't want to have a war with him, I suppose. But my brothers are all dead. I can easily arrange for the same to be done to yours.' The king stepped back, eyes wide and manic. 'So you'll lead my army against theirs. Understand?'

'I understand, Your Grace.'

'Ber-' said Finland, clutching at his arm. But Sweden gave him a cold, cruel look, and stalked off down the hallway. Finland did not move for some time. They were at war- with Denmark and Norway. And he did not care. That knowledge was liberating, so blissful that he felt light as the summer sky. _They might hate us. They might have forgotten us. And it means nothing to me._ He smiled- and felt the first cracks of a scream inching towards his throat.

 **This is a little timeline of when and where all the chapters have happened so far :)**

 **Chapter 1, Part 1- late 900s, somewhere in southern Sweden close to Denmark**

 **Ch.1 Pt. 2- Same as pt. 1**

 **Ch.1 Pt. 3- a month after Pt.1, somewhere on the North Sea**

 **Ch.1 Pt.4- Southern England, a couple of weeks after Pt.3**

 **Ch.1 Pt.5- 1016, in Copenhagen, then the same bit of Southern England**

 **Ch.1 Pt.6- Southern England, London**

 **Ch.1 Pt.7- Stockholm, Finnish border, around the year 1200**

 **Ch.1 Pt.8- Stockholm and Iceland**

 **Ch.1 Pt.9- Stockholm, year 1200**

 **Chapter 2- Copenhagen, Kalmar right at the end, year 1397**

 **Chapter 3- Copenhagen, year 1407**

 **Chapter 4- Copenhagen and forests of Sjalleland (very close nearby) year 1438**

 **Chapter 5- Copenhagen, Prague (Holy Roman Empire), 1439**

 **Chapter 6- Copenhagen, Uppsala (Sweden), Stockholm, Copenhagen again, year 1523**

 **Chapter 7- Copenhagen, late in year 1523**

 **Chapter 8- Copenhagen, late 1523/early 1524**

 **Chapter 9- Graddö, Västerås (both Sweden), Lübeck (HRE), Stockholm, late 1523/most of 1524**

 **Chapter 10- Copenhagen, Malmö, late 1524**


	12. Chapter 12

**Please read this first bit, it's important! :D**

 **So first of all, I owe you all a HUGE apology for updating so late. I started school again this week so I've only been able to write in the evenings, and the week before I was in Brighton with no Wi-Fi so I couldn't do any chapter research or planning. And I just want to say- I have no plans to abandon this fic whatsoever, I absolutely love writing it and I hope you all love reading it! Updates will be once a week from now because I'm very busy with schoolwork, but if it's a little late don't worry! Also, I want to say a massive thank you to the guest who left a very long review nearly a week ago, it really motivated me to write when I felt down or tired so thank you very much! :D If any of you want to contact me, you can send a PM on here or on my tumblr, norxcoffee. I'd love to hear your opinions and anything you'd like to see in this story. So, enjoy, and please review! :D reviews are lovely to receive and I have a policy of leaving one on every fic I read now, just for your information... i'll let you read now :D**

 **Copenhagen, early 1611**

Fate allowed them nearly a hundred years of peace. Norway let go of his brothers, and in doing so Denmark let go with him, conceding that things would never be the same again. Denmark still burned with rage at the mere mention of Sweden's name, would have rained blood and anguish upon him if he dared set foot on his land, but the scars of the past were healing. _Be patient_ , Norway said often in those days. They both learnt that there was a certain elegance to politics, a game they had been playing for so long that it seemed almost natural. Norway no longer had to prove himself to gain a new king's favour- it was already his, from the admiration of other courtiers and his constant involvement in court life. The sixteenth century also marked a period of extravagant wealth in their part of Scandinavia. Denmark raised the Sound Dues as much as he dared, confident in his new role of controlling Copenhagen's trade-heavy ports, and brought in one of the largest profits out of their many ventures. A good deal of that profit was handed over to them, with sufficient left over to fill the treasuries. Iceland grew up surrounded by beautiful, expensive things, receiving only the best tutors and living in their huge mansion, which was decorated tastefully and 's nightmares were a thing of the past. Iceland no longer pined for his half-remembered uncles. Norway could read their accounts of history with only some nostalgia, and no bitterness. The three of them were rich, clever- and happy, truly happy, at long last.

Yet now, with a few misspoken words and the follies of a brash king, Scandinavia's brother nations once again faced each other through the crimson-tainted eyes of war. _I would like to believe we were forced into it,_ thought Norway ten days after the declaration. He sat in a window bracket in Christian IV's city palace, the stained glass a kaleidoscope beneath his long fingers. The sky was pale, the soft pink of a petal, with a bloody streak of cloud scored through it. That boded ill for Norway. His mind was occupied with nothing but thoughts of war, and a sharp fear that this would break Northern Europe for good. But when they had weathered so many storms, countless fights against enemy and friend alike... he shook his head, turning away from the sunset. _A waste, to throw away everything we have spent centuries building._ He trusted and respected King Christian- trusted everything about him except that indefatigable desire for glory that rested in all members of royalty, weak and strong alike. _He is cautious, but ambitious. He wanted this war._ Now, so many decades after he had last seen him, Norway could not help but wonder if Sweden wanted a war as well. His brother was sensible, prudent, and no doubt regretted his King Charles' madcap announcement. And yet... Doubt prickled down his spine with foreboding claws. The Sweden he knew would never have condoned this war. But Norway could not say he knew Sweden anymore, not truly. He remembered the stern face and the heart of gold beneath it, remembered a loyalty that never wavered until it was not worth maintaining. He followed every order he was given, faithfully and well. Now Sweden had the freedom to make his own choices. And that was not a Sweden Norway could imagine, a Sweden that terrified him. _He has become strong- him with his Swedish Empire and glorious Vasa Era_. He and Denmark were nothing in comparison. Just them and their little mess of colonies, held together by old memories and broken dreams.

Norway slipped down from the window seat and strode through the palace until he came to the council chamber. Two guards in crimson regalia admitted him, uncrossing their long spears. Inside King Christian IV stood at the head of the table with Denmark, both of them studying the large map of Europe and talking in low voices. The other councillors were signing parchments and writing letters, not considered quite important enough to discuss battle plans.

'Ah, good.' said the king when he saw Norway. He dismissed the others with a nod, so it was just the two of them and Denmark in the room. 'The attack will be swift and sudden,' he continued, pointing to the map where three points were marked with little flags. 'We shall press from Kristianopel, Halmstad and from Norway towards Älvsborg, closing in on the Swedish army and forcing them to retreat into Kalmar.'

'And you mean to besiege them there?' asked Norway. 'They will be prepared, and may meet us in the field.'

'Their armies are still scattered and weakened from the wars in Finland,' explained Denmark. He moved a flag forward. 'Kalmar was built for amusement, not a siege. We expect to take it within a week.' Norway nodded, scanning the map with a critical eye. He could find few flaws in the plan, and their army was of more than sufficient prowess to defeat a host of tired Swedes.

'I want you to lead the troops out of Norway,' the king cut in. He fixed Norway with his signature piercing gaze, who returned it with twice the iciness. 'Some of your own people will be fighting, and I suspect they would rather be led by one of their own into a war that hardly affects them.' That made sense. And it was not surprising, when Norway considered the facts. He was liked and trusted at court, doing more than his crown property status required, and had shown his skill on the battlefield. _An obvious choice,_ he thought, allowing himself a small moment of pride.

'I swear I will bring victory to you, Your Grace.' Christian nodded.

'Good. Now we shall discuss the next phase of our attack,' he said, moving on with customary briskness. He pushed another flag forward. 'Once we have taken Kalmar, I intend to meet with King Charles if he will see me and demand the return of our lands.

'And if he does not return them?' asked Denmark, cutting to the quick. The king's face set in a grim smile.

'Then Sweden will be reminded of our strength,' he said, stabbing a finger down onto Stockholm. That unnerved Norway.

'You intend to take the capital?' he said, keeping the incredulity from his voice. 'Forgive me, but this sounds more like an invasion than reclaiming lands that are rightfully mine.'

'Ours.' admonished Christian, with such quiet coolness that even Norway felt a shiver run through him.

'My land, your property. I do not disrespect that, Your Grace.' The king waved away his apologies good-naturedly, and Denmark flashed him a grin.

'Nice recovery, Norge.' he whispered.

'Shut up.' The king coughed, and their heads snapped up in unison.

'I do not intend for this to be an invasion, only a fight for justice.' he said, picking up all three minute flags. 'But whatever spoils fall to us, we shall take.' The flags dropped across the map- across Sweden. Yet Norway felt no rush of excitement, no wonderful thrill. Only sickening dread.

Five days later, he rode for Kalmar with Denmark at his side. After its fall, Norway's orders were to head north and join up with the Norwegian forces there, acting as both a defence against and a threat to the Swedish army. He was relishing the thought of command. Battle had always come naturally to Norway, and now to be a tactician at the head of his own forces excited him more than he would admit. The path wound long and slow. Occasionally the column would pass a village, people gazing up in awe at the army glistening in the sun. It reminded him of how Iceland had looked the day he bid them farewell. His little mouth was hanging open at the sight of his big brothers arrayed in armour, both respected commanders with rich silken cloaks streaming from their shoulders, only the king riding in front of them.

'Lift me up, Noregur!' he had begged.

'I can't, _lillebror_.' Norway was forced to say. He reached his hand in its mailed gauntlet down to Iceland. 'But we'll be back very soon.'

'How long?'

'No more than a few weeks or months.' put in Denmark at that point. His face gleamed with a new-found joy, built up from days spent practicing his swordplay in the yard and overseeing the mustered forces- just like the Denmark of the old days, who took a fierce pleasure in the sight of blood. 'And I'll bring you back an enemy head if you like, that was quite popular back in the day.' He ignored Norway's hissed reprimand, ruffling Iceland's hair.

'I don't want an enemy head,' Iceland said in a small voice. 'I want to go with you. Please, _storebror_ , don't leave me behind!' Norway felt his heart somehow soften and tighten at the same time. He dreaded the day when Iceland would be old enough to ride with them, to take a man's life and witness the horrors of war for himself. _Not for decades, even centuries if the gods are good._ Which they so often were not.

'When you're older.' he told his brother, firm but kind. A warhorn sounded from the gate. 'We have to go now, Island,' said Norway, turning his horse around. 'But we'll be back very soon, I promise.' Iceland gave a stiff nod. Norway trotted away, not allowing himself to look back. Iceland had never reacted like this when they went away before- perhaps it was that they had been at peace for so long, and the change unsettled him. But Norway, never supersitious, could not shake the feeling that something in his little brother's words carried foreboding for the fight ahead. _Stupid_ , he told himself. _That's impossible_. Yet Iceland's sobs, floating towards him on the cool wind, suggested that it was very much possible indeed.

 **Kalmar, Sweden, early 1611**

In the end it was no hard-won siege. They rode up to the gates of Kalmar, he and Denmark, only to find that their request to meet with an envoy had been denied. Instead the head of the city's defence shouted down that he had no intention of surrendering, and there were enough supplies in the castle for two years' waiting.

'I doubt it.' muttered Denmark out of the corner of his mouth as they made their way back to camp.

'Well?' said King Christian when they were admitted into his war tent.

'They refuse to surrender, Your Grace, and insist they have enough food to sit and starve us out.' Norway studied the king's face, trying to gauge what he was thinking. But there was nothing to be seen except his usual passive glare, and the sharpness of those cold grey eyes. His hand toyed with a dice over the map. A small block of red-painted wood represented their armies, the blue one Sweden. One was sat inside in Kalmar, one in Stockholm, and their own remained just outside the former. _How do we get in?_ was all Norway could think. They had a bulk of supplies waiting at their call in Copenhagen- and somewhere the Swedish king Charles was mimicking their actions, drawing up his own plan of attack that might well be directed at Denmark.

'Do you believe them?' said Christian at last.

'No.' was Denmark's immediate reply. Norway considered a little longer, brushing one finger across the map. He hated taking risks, and yet...

'I do not, Your Grace.' _It is our only chance._

'Then tomorrow, we storm the gate.' They were dismissed with a flick of the wrist, out into the sharp night air, heads still spinning with strategies and cities and armies. Norway let out a long sigh. One day in the field and he was already exhausted, beaten down by the constant enmity of his union-country and their estranged brother. _Why couldn't you just leave us alone?_ he thought with sudden spite, weaving his way through the camp. _We were happy, after so long._ And he did not know if it was vengeance Sweden wanted, or bragging rights, a release of anger, just the primitive thrill of war. Norway mulled over it all, and decided that he no longer cared.

But the grin would not slip from his face once they took the city, a mere two days later. At least thirty Swedes dead, no more than five of their own, and another jewel in the cracked crown of conquering for Denmark.

'Good people,' announced King Christian, dressed from head to toe in gleaming metal despite not having done so much as unsheath his sword. 'I do not intend to be your conqueror, nor your liberator if that is what you wish. I simply want to take back what was stolen from me by your king, whose title and lands I recognise and accept. Keep the peace in Kalmar, and I shall see to it that no more blood is spilt.' There were various murmurs of agreement from the Danish lords. Denmark, whose longsword had claimed seven of the thirty Swedish dead, nodded along with his king's words. _We have won,_ Norway told himself in an attempt to muster some satisfaction. He smiled, yes, but that was just the hazy rush of battle fever. _Our kingdom. Our victory_. Nothing worked. Norway simply could not find it in himself to care, felt only bitterness and discontent at what had happened.

'It feels hollow,' he told Denmark that night. They sat on camp stools in their generously-sized tent, courtesy of King Christian's favour, sharing a flagon of strong ale between them. 'Like a game, somehow. We're playing at war, taking a few castles here and there- castles that belonged to our brother.' Denmark's fingers tightened around his cup.

'I know,' he said, voice husky. 'I thought- I thought this would make it right again.' Their eyes met, different shades of blue with the same blank sorrow. 'That if somehow, we took a bit of land and fought a few battles, everything would go back to normal. As equals.'

'Sweden...' Norway's voice trailed away. He shook his head, a thousand words jostling at his lips but none of them seeming to put what he was thinking to justice.

'I would kill him if I saw him again.' Denmark cut in harshly. He took a long sip of ale, eyes closing at the acrid taste. 'I think about it sometimes- I'm there, running after him on some battlefield with my sword outstretched. Laughing, like I used to. Do you remember that?' His head tipped backwards to rest on the chair, face wrapped in memory.

'I do.' A demon, carving bloody joy with every stroke of his sword- and laughing, fuelled with the exhilaration of being able to dance around any enemy and know that they would fall. Norway had felt it himself often enough. _Not for decades, though. Not whilst we are trapped in this melancholy._ 'And I don't think you would.' Denmark cast a lazy glance at him.

'Why's that?' he said, voice muffled by the rim of his flagon. Irritation rose up in Norway, sudden and unwelcome as a summer storm.

'Don't play the fool.' he snapped. 'He's your brother, for Odin's sake. Imagine if Iceland grew up and rebelled against me, do you think I'd want to murder him? It's the same with you and Sweden, Den, but you just refuse to see it.'

'Ice would never do that.' muttered Denmark. He sighed, setting down his cup and shooting a desperation-filled gaze at Norway. 'It's hard to explain, Nor. Just to see another nation being conquered, my _brother's_ nation, by us of all people- brings back memories.' His voice had descended into a mumble by the end. 'We were that nation once. We were the ones who didn't look like surviving.'

'But we _did_.' Norway reached out and took his hand, trying to make him see sense. Denmark had always dwelt too long on the past, and one day it would smother him unless he learned to let go. 'We survived, Danmark. We're here right now, strong again.'

'I don't want to take that away from him.' mumbled Denmark to the floor. 'I can't picture his face without wanting to slap it, but his people- they're his strength, his lifeblood, just like the rest of us. I don't want to harm them, because it would harm him. But-' He dragged a hand through his hair, which seemed to droop along with his glum mood.

'But you want to harm him.' finished Norway quietly.

'Yes.' He considered that for a moment. Norway had never been good with other people, always too cold and aloof to concern himself with their lives, yet he possessed an uncanny ability to stare into someone's eyes and see their soul staring back at him. Denmark was no exception. Vengeance was the word that came to mind, a vengeance that matched the fiery pain of the Kalmar era. 'Perhaps it's justice that you want.' Norway deduced at last. 'Something to pay back for all the years of fighting.' _And of course you directed it all at Sweden,_ he added to himself. _Typical, hot-headed Danmark._

'Justice.' repeated Denmark. The word fell from his mouth blandly, oddly, as though its meaning held some arcane secret too difficult to resolve. 'It'll be justice when we're equal again. This war could do that.' He smiled then; a sad, sweet, thing, with a poignant delicacy, somehow more tender than his usual wide grin. 'I used to know what I felt. I used to understand, Nor.' And that was love, Norway decided. Enigmatic, confusing, bewildering, a rush of sensation like the unfurling buds of spring- sudden, swift, striking just where it hurt and not becoming softer until time allowed. _It affects us all._ Twin sadness and irritation pricked at Norway. He was not soft, not kind, but logical and sensible, with just enough magic in his blood that a sense of falsely beautiful mystery hung about him. Yet Denmark managed to brush all of that away. He knew how to be charming, with his buoyant personality and sun-golden good looks, could win over a whole room using mere charisma as easily as he could destroy it with his axe. And Norway was the one who had been chosen to sit on the receiving end of that liveliness. _We chose each other,_ he reminded himself. _We are strong in different ways- he on a battlefield, I in the closed-tongued courtesy of a court life_. He had always been able to play the game of thrones better, just as Denmark had always excelled when they went to war.

'I understand.' whispered Norway. His composure, so beaten and broken in these past weeks, gained another layer. But this one was warm. This one made him feel worth of a different kind. He took Denmark into his arms- or was it the other way round?- both of them holding, hoping, aching with the weight of another soul entwined. _But I will bear that weight. I will bear it for all our days, because I have chosen to- I have chosen you._ And he knew, staring deep into Denmark's love-soft eyes, that the same was promised to him.

 **Norwegian-Swedish border, February 1611**

The next day he set out on the road with ten guardsmen, making for the Norwegian border where his armies awaited him. Norway could feel himself getting stronger, more alive somehow, with every mile they travelled. The land was greener, more familiar, though he had not set foot in it for longer than a century. And the rush that burst through his body when they finally left Sweden was like nothing Norway had ever experienced before. Everything was brighter, sharper all of a sudden, the wind fresh-tasting on his tongue and an untamed magic coursing through his veins like wildfire. Norway raced ahead of his guards, a smile brimming unchecked upon his lips. This- all from the wind-induced tears in his eyes to the joyous song soaring in his heart- this was what it truly meant to _be_. But that was nothing compared to their arrival at the camp. He heard them before he saw them- just the low hum of voices and the occasional whinny of a horse, but there was something in the rhythm of their speech, something melodious that he understood without words. Norway dismounted his horse with tremours shaking his entire body. Slowly, as though some strange force controlled them all, every single soldier in the camp turned to look at him. A thousand faces- yet they did not feel threatening. _They are mine. My own people._ He began to walk, through the vast spread of tents, past cookfires, alongside horses, all the while dazed hands reaching out to grasp at his cloak, brush the ground where his boots had touched it. And Norway was utterly unafraid. Had the circumstances been different, he might have thought that this was what it felt like to be Denmark, floating on a constant cloud of exhilaration. But he did not. This was his time, his people, his lifeblood. He stretched out his hands, and let the winds of home rush over him.

Leading an army proved to be more interesting than difficult, just as Norway had predicted. Each morning he and the other commanders listened to news brought back by scouts, and redeveloped their strategies if necessary. The rest of the camp ran itself for the most part. Sometimes the soldiers held sparring sessions amongst themselves, fighting more with fists than actual weapons, but Norway supposed it was good for them to practice. He took up a sword himself once or twice, and was pleased to discover his old Viking instinct still remained. Yet the main joy of his day was the people themselves. They smiled up at him when he walked by, every face reverent and dazed, offering food from their cookfires and displaying their eagerness to fight. The rational half of Norway knew it was good for them to be so ready to fight for Denmark- and his other half, doused in magic and mystery, wanted them for himself. _They are my people, but the king's property,_ he thought, recalling King Christian's blunt words. And the king was indeed beginning to weigh on Norway's mind heavily. He had always been cautious, the bitter legacy of previous kings peering over his shoulder, poisoning his natural intellect. A cautious king could not lead them to victory in war- which was all that mattered right now. His letters to Norway were brief, reluctant somehow, commanding only that he stayed where he was to await further instructions. The soldiers were excited for war now, yes, but in another three weeks? Somehow he doubted it.

 **Harjedalen, Norway, (now Sweden), February 1611**

Norway had never been superstitious, but when a scribbled note from Denmark arrived that evening, he would have sworn there were higher powers involved. _Jämtland and Härjedalen taken by Swedish forces three days ago, it read._ _King orders that you go to reclaim them immediately. Sorry for handwriting- D._ He might have laughed. This was no true war, not when they skirted around true action in favour of manouevres that made little to no sense.

'What the king wants, the king gets.' Norway muttered, voice bitter from centuries of being told what to do by idiots with crowns. This one was less of an idiot, admittedly. But that did not drive away his irritation. So the next day, after a night of fitful, irritated sleep, he rode away from the camp with a guard of ten men hemming him in. There would have been no time to bring the whole army. This was an inside operation, much as Norway hated the phrase. They arrived after a mere day and a half's riding. His plan was simple- kill the commander, and watch his men fall into disarray. Norway had seen it work often enough, when inadequate second-in-commands rose to power and could not handle it, usually losing whichever war or siege it was in the process. There was no reason why the principle should not work here. He urged his horse forward, eyeing the gold-trimmed crest of Sweden flying high from a tower. _It is my duty to bring it down._

'State your purpose here,' said a guard on the gate, speaking in Swedish that was so flat and mumbled, Norway was hard pressed to keep up with it.

'We are on our way north to trade with the villages there, and plan to spend several days accumulating more resources.' he said, a pre-planned lie. The soldier scanned their little party, face glum and disinterested.

'All right. Leave any weapons by the gate.' he said, waving them forward. There was a series of _clinks_ as swords were drawn from their sheaths and piled up by the gate. Norway relinquished his own sword and twin daggers, the polished handle of a hidden blade digging into his shin at the same. An effective gatekeeper would no doubt have asked him to remove his boots for inspection. Yet these were simply tired, bored men, anxious to return home and be freed from taking part in meaningless wars. _Good_ , thought Norway. _That will make my job all the easier._ He dismounted, entering the town on foot. If outside the security had been lax, inside it resembled a veritable fortress. The Swedish were everywhere- guards in polished steel armour stood outside every important-looking building, commanders with blue silk plumes flying from their helmets, lords in velvet robes, everyone apart from the people whose homes they occupied. Norway felt his heart clench at the injustice. He knew instinctively which were his. They dressed plainly, as did all commoners, but the words coming from their mouths were far from plain. His language, without any of the courtesies Norway had become so used to. Simple- but beautiful at the same time.

'I'm home,' he muttered under his breath. Yes, it was the same in Danish, but somehow the subtle shift of accent made it mean all the more to him.

'Excuse me,' he said to the next peasant girl that walked by. She turned about, eyes taking in the expensive cut of his clothes. No doubt, many rich merchants passed through here. 'Is there an inn or tavern here?'

'Oh, yes,' the girl said, pointing behind her. ' _Den Uhøflige Sjømannen._ It's expensive, though.' A sudden gap-toothed smile spread across her face, and only then did Norway realise how young she must have been. Fifteen, sixteen at the most. Too young to have her home invaded and patrolled. 'You can stay with my family if you'd like?' Her smile became bashful. 'We have a spare room- quite small, so- of course, if you'd rather-'

'Thank you,' he cut in, shooting her a smile of his own. 'I would be very grateful.' He gestured for her to show him the way. But the girl's eyes remained fixed on his face, a small frown wrinkling her nose as she scrutinised him.

'Do I know you?' That question always sent shooting pangs through Norway. He had been asked it hundreds, thousands of times, yet the answer was always the same.

'I'm afraid not.' _But I know you. I know your voice, though I have never heard it, the sea-blue-grey of your eyes, the ground your feet tread upon and the very rhythm of your heartbeat._ There was a strange longing in his own heart as he followed her down the winding cobble roads.

'But Frøya, he is _beautiful!_ ' exclaimed the girl's mother in barely hushed tones.

'Mor!' she hissed back, embarrassed.

'Come in, come in!' the older woman cried. Norway stepped over the threshold of the little house, breathing in the warm scent of freshly baked bread. The downstairs was composed of one large room, with whitewashed walls and carven wooden furniture. A fire smouldered in the grate, three ashen-blond children looked up from their game in the corner- and that was it. No ornaments, none of the comforts that even the simplest homes had. Norway wondered if this poverty had struck when the Swedish invaded, and sincerely hoped it was not so for his brother's sake. _Because if it was, I might never forgive him_. Denmark's explosive rage after Kalmar began to make sense. _His people were being harmed._ And now Norway faced that very same dilemma.

'Far was the village carpenter,' said Frøya quietly, snapping him from his reverie. 'That's why we've got a house this size. But since he went off to the war-' She broke off, shaking her head.

'You've had no word?'

'None.' Her grin returned before Norway could offer another word of comfort. 'But you're here to be happy! Onkel Erik owns the tavern three doors down, so we'll have a drink to celebrate.'

'Celebrate?' queried Norway, an amused smile quirking his lips. Frøya's face took on a rosy hue.

'New friends, all that.' she mumbled to her feet. The ache returned, raw and unwelcome. _New friends,_ he thought bitterly. _I can have no friends but my fellow nations._ And even then, the only other nations in his life were his brother and lover. Hardly friends- his own piecemeal family.

Onkel Erik's tavern was a dense little building, made homely with lanterns everywhere and huge casks of ale against the walls. Norway took a sip from his own flagon. Home-brewed, definitely- there was a rough, grainy aftertaste that was oddly pleasant on his tongue. He took another large gulp. Frøya beside him made a face as she tried her own.

'It's too bitter,' she said, shivering as she swallowed. Norway had to laugh. 'You get used to it if you drink enough.'

'And you would know?'

'Unfortunately, yes. I don't recommend it.' Her laugh was light, playful. It lit up her dark eyes in a way Norway had come to be fond of, even in the short time he had known the girl. Leaving this place would hurt.

'Enough about that!' said Frøya's mother, voice amplified by the three huge mugs of ale she had consumed. 'Lukas, tell me. Do you have someone back home?' He forced a laugh. _My people are sweet, but strange._ Denmark often described him the same way.

'Of a sort.' said Norway cautiously. How long had it been now- seven hundred years of another soul tied to his? 'Of a sort' hardly did justice to that. _Sorry, Den,_ he thought to himself. 'Back in Copenhagen, though. A long way.' He regretted the words as soon as they were spoken.

'Copenhagen?' Frøya's mother shot him a sharp glance. 'It's a Danish girl you're after?'

'Well... not really...' he mumbled, awkward all of a sudden. But she would have none of it.

'Forget her,' she proclaimed pompously, laying a work-roughened hand on his own. 'She's a foreigner, no good to simple folk like you and me. All the Danes I've met have too many airs and graces about them. And the language!'

'Mor, stop.' Frøya said through gritted teeth. 'Let's get you home.' She stood, ushering out the older woman. 'Sorry about her.' she said to Norway with a rueful grin.

'Oh, it's nothing, don't worry.' But the girl's face was still pained, and she tugged on her lip with a wavering hand.

'She wants me to marry, you see. Ever since Far left- well, there's been no money since the town was invaded. We used to take a wagon up to town every month and sell things.' She gave a sad smile, shrugging. Norway's fingers clenched so tightly around his flagon that it hurt.

'I need to say something. To everyone.'

 _'Hva?'_

'Please. Just get their attention.' Frøya gave him a strange look, but she turned aside and said a few words to her uncle.

'Silence!' roared the huge man. All talk died away in an instant.

'Thank you,' said Norway, pleased to find his voice strong and rich. He pushed himself to his feet. 'Now if I may say a few words.' The faces of the villagers peered up at him- some bleary with drink, some half-asleep, all confused. 'I have fought in and led King Christian's armies for years now,' he began, forcing eye contact with all of them. 'I have bled on the battlefield beside countless Danes, in lands far away from my own. But not until recently did I find myself bidden to bleed for Norway.' There were a few murmurs at that. 'I will trust you with this, as my own countrymen- the king sent me here to take the town.'

'Without an army?' called out one of the drunker voices. 'No chance.'

'Without an army.' agreed Norway. 'I have but ten men of my own. All good soldiers and loyal to their king, but not enough. Which is where you come in.' He allowed the first hints of a smile to creep through. 'Fight alongside me. Take your town back from the Swedish invaders, and I swear that you shall never want for food nor freedom again. What do you say?'

'I will fight!' cried Frøya from his side. All eyes flicked to her, and she blushed deep crimson. 'I can be strong too.'

'Of course.' said Norway, grinning at her. 'Who else will follow?' It was easy from there. Onkel Erik nodded his agreement, as did all twelve of his equally huge cousins, several scrawny young children promised to steal Swedish supplies whenever they could, Frøya's aunts and their friends said they would put sawdust in the bread, and everyone who could hold a spear- man or woman, old or young- was accepted as a fighter.

 _'Isen engelen,_ sent to save us!' yelled someone at the back. A warm, fiery sensation had taken hold of Norway. _The ice angel_. And he supposed that was what he was to these people- their saviour. The only person that could save their home. He smiled, and let the glorious shouts wash over him like sunbeams.

Yet that very same night, guilt, bitterest of pills to swallow, crept up on him with cold fingers. Norway had lived with Denmark longer than he could remember, had allowed the warmth and comfort it afforded him to shroud all thoughts of returning home. The few occasions Norway was permitted to return to his land were stiff, formal affairs, usually the enthroning of a new bishop or overseeing trade in Oslo. Not like this. Not personal, close. Only now was he truly learning what it meant to be a nation. To feel the land, feel the magic thrumming through it, to be drawn to the people like bees with honey and be overwhelmed with the desire to protect them. _But how can I protect them when they belong to Denmark on paper?_ They might have been Danish property, but they would always be Norwegian in their hearts. And therein lay the true problem. Ever since coming here, Norway had felt an incessant, almost primitive need for freedom, to stand as an independent nation and protect them without aid from outside. But to leave their union would break Denmark's heart beyond repair. _I love him. Irrationally, unconditionally, deeply, fiercely, every word that carries meaning when spoken._ Such illogical feelings went against Norway's personal moral code- and yet that love was the strongest thing he had ever known. He would not cast it away for freedom, something proven to be flimsy at the best of times. _I can wait. My time will come._

His little resistance grew in size and strength as the months went by. ' _Engelens opprørere_ ,' they were called, the Angel's rebels, in a homage to the way Norway had swept in and saved them all. Workers went on strike and barred their doors to the angry Swedish soldiers, children threw rotten food at them in the street and hid, weapons went missing or rusted and every day someone sliced off another portion of the once-proud Swedish flag. There was no need to murder the commander anymore. Not when his men were collapsing under pressure from a few dozen disgruntled peasant farmers. Frøya was a vital source of aid in those days- smuggling rations back and forth, breaking into the government building and eavesdropping on meetings, covering up for the young ones when they were accused of stealing. Slowly, little by little, the Swedish forces began to crumble. Norway had been staying in the town for just over nine months when a letter arrived from King Christian. It was written in his own hasty hand, with the customary sweeping signature at the bottom, so Norway supposed it had to be genuine.

'What is it?' asked Frøya. She could not read, just as no one else in the village could.

'I am commanded to return to Sweden,' he replied, voice dull. 'King Charles is dead.' Frøya frowned.

'But that's good, isn't it? Surely you've won now?' Norway gave her a bleak smile.

'It doesn't work like that, I'm afraid. His son has taken the throne now and wishes to broker a peace. I have to help secure that peace.' The girl's eyes searched his face; confused, denying. Her hand crept towards his, and Norway stood abruptly. _No. Not now. Not ever._

'I must leave.' he announced awkwardly.

'But you'll come back, won't you, Lukas?' Frøya's shouts echoed towards him across the square. 'Lukas! Promise you'll visit!' A constant beat of no drummed against his skull, like a death knell ringing out. Norway allowed himself to turn around one last time.

'Goodbye, Frøya.' He would never see the girl again.

 **Danish army camp in Southern Sweden, October 1611**

The ride back to Sweden was short, mainly because Norway pushed up the pace until his horse was flagging beneath him. He dismounted in one swift movement and made straight for the king's red silk pavillion. Christian himself was sat on a camp stool when Norway arrived, a folded piece of parchment in his hand.

'Your Grace.' He dipped a quick bow. 'I rode as fast as I could.'

'Excellent. Please, have a seat.' Norway sank down into a chair next to Denmark, who shot him a mingling expression of love and need. He pulled off his gloves, smoothing his travel-mussed hair and catching his breath.

'The new king, Gustavus, is a mere boy of seventeen. He knows he cannot win the war his father started, and so he wishes to have peace between our countries once more.'

'We have our lands back,' urged Norway. 'We have gained what we set out to. Peace is the best option.' But Christian smiled, small and amused. In Norway's exhausted state it appeared almost condescending.

'King Gustavus, though he carries the name of his worthy grandfather, is still a child. He cannot hope to defeat us in the field, so he tries to with this paltry letter.' He let the parchment slip from his fingers and come to rest in shame on the ground. 'My ancestors ruled the entirety of the North Sea once, and all its lands. Why should I not be able to do the same?' Denmark and Norway exchanged a look.

'Your Grace,' began Denmark hesitantly. 'Things were... different back then. The strength of Cnut, a great leader though he was, lay in his power at sea. And we do not have that advantage so such a great extent now.' Christian mulled it over, scratching at his stubble-coated chin.

'Tell me, what was the situation in Härjedalen when you left?'

'Unsettled, Your Grace.' Norway was forced to say. 'The townspeople formed a resistance, and the invaders had all but surrendered by the time I was called away.'

'Good, good.' There was silence for a moment as the king made his decision. Norway resisted the urge to reach out and take Denmark's hand, settling for staring deep into his eyes instead. 'We have the opportunity to take more land.' said Christian after a moment. He scrutinised them both with his usual frankness, baring their souls with his grim grey gaze.

'And I intend to fulfil that opportunity to its greatest potential.' And there it was- the peak of centuries of fighting, pieces pushed into motion and knocked off the board, all leading up to this single, poised moment. Norway knew that power was the only thing that would keep their countries alive. He knew that power, whether it lay in a swordstroke or the strokes of a pen, could destroy kingdoms as easily as it could create them. The only way to get power was to seize it- yet all he saw now was red raining down, pointless bloodshed to open up a new era of hatred and enmity. Careless of the king's prying eyes, he put a hand over Denmark's and clutched it hard. _You are all that keeps me together. And now we ride into a storm that will surely break us apart._

 **Sorry if the Norwegian is inaccurate, I had to use Google Translate which is very unreliable :D**


	13. Chapter 13

**Sorry this is a bit late, school is busy right now. But I hope you like it! It was really fun to write, as always, so leave a review and let me know what you thought :D**

 _They wanted this_ , Sweden thought to himself whenever his resolve wavered. He could imagine it quite clearly- Denmark and Norway, stood beside their king's throne with the solemn stance of good advisors, filling his ears with poison against King Charles. Sweden understood perfectly well why. Revenge. It drove everyone, from high lords to muddy peasants in the fields, turning brother against brother and kingdom against kingdom. No one felt its sting more keenly than Denmark, and even Norway could turn cold the second he believed he had been wronged. So that was why Sweden's fists clenched every time someone mentioned the war, why he could hardly look at their countries on a map. The new King Gustavus did not help. He had a child's eagerness for the fights to come, yet approached his strategies with all the cautiousness and tact of a seasoned general. That alone made Sweden distrust him. _He is only seventeen. Still a boy, in truth._ And what had happened to honour if he could not trust a seventeen-year-old boy, one that was his king? The situation reminded him of when Eric VII ruled, over a Kalmar Union that was shaky as best. _He was a child as well._ In Sweden's experience, child kings did not turn out to be wise, strong rulers. Especially when they were thrust onto their throne in the middle of a war.

Now he stood before his new king, listening as he read out the letter that would determine the fate of Scandinavia.

'King Christian sends his regards and condolences for the death of King Charles, and wishes the new King Gustavus a safe, wise reign.' That was an interesting choice of words, it seemed to Sweden. 'But he also regrets that a truce is impossible, and advises His Highness to return the lands that were stolen from the Danish crown.' Gustavus gave a derisive snort. There was a chainmail coat beneath his tunic; its metal links shook gently against each other as he folded his arms. It made him feel more powerful, no doubt. And any power- feigned included- was something the uneasy Swedish Empire needed just now.

'Your Grace,' began Sweden, as he had so many times. 'I would advise you against meeting him in the field. The Danish army is-'

'Do you take me for a fool?' He stared at Sweden with all the blatant arrogance of youth, dark eyes somehow fiery. A brave boy, then, though whether intelligence came with it remained to be seen.

'Not at all. I had the honour of serving your royal grandfather, and I am sure you will bear his name well as king.' Gustavus listened, boredom obvious. Sweden was forced to tighten his mouth to keep from dealing the boy a well-deserved talking-to. _Confident without a doubt. Some of the worst kings I have seen had only confidence._ He would drum some sense into the ruler of the Swedish Empire if it killed him.

'I notice you omitted my _royal_ father from your pretty speech. So at least you do not fear to speak your mind, even if in a roundabout way.'

'Most discerning, Your Grace. Now if we could continue-'

'Yes, yes.' Gustavus cut him off with a wave of the hand. There was a self-assured feeling to him that went beyond mere brashness, Sweden felt. In one meeting his new king had already discovered and accepted- even agreed with- Sweden's opinion on the late King Charles. But wisdom was what they needed right now. _Gustavus had better be wise, or the Kalmar Union may yet rear its ugly head again._ 'I plan to raid Danish land along the coastline, where they will not have time to send a navy before we have pillaged and burned. That should bring Christian running down to chastise me. Your thoughts?'

'You may still be forced to meet him in the field, and we do not have resources for a long siege even in Stockholm. My brother-' He bit his lip and started again. 'The Danish are a resilient foe. They will find the strength to fight somewhere, even after a week-long march.' Gustavus shot him a look on the word 'brother', but was otherwise silent. A still-soft hand skimmed across the map.

'We will raid them in these three towns, progressing to Vittsjö once we receive news they are on the march. Perhaps we can agree to an exchange of lands there- Nordland for the southern territories that were stolen from my grandfather.' A thousand flaws leapt out at Sweden. All of it depended on the actions of King Christian, on his temperament and insight, and the advisors around him. The mere thought of it sent a chill through Sweden. Denmark would certainly want to march south, confident in his peoples' military prowess, but Norway's approach had been cautious even in the Viking days. _He will want to wait. To see who can break first._ And Norway had always been particularly skilled in making Denmark see his way of thinking. Sweden opened his mouth- and closed it again. The strange blue fire had returned to Gustavus' eyes. He was proud of this plan, that much was obvious, and had no desire to change it now. The least Sweden could do was praise his efforts.

'A sound stategy,' he said, voice level.

'And you stand behind it?' Sweden hesitated. His every instinct screamed no, signalled catastrophe; he wanted to leave, to take Finland and flee as far north as north went to get away from this mess of kings and wars. _You swore to obey,_ said a voice in his head. Its tones were smooth, almost teasing. That reminded him insufferably of Denmark. _Traitor_. He could not be that man again. He could not break another vow.

'I do.' Sweden pledged.

In the end it was no true war, merely a fatherless boy's bloody rage. They raided and pillaged with no mercy, slaughtering anyone who protested and torching the southern towns, the smoke-smeared sky a warning for their enemies. Sweden's expectations, never high to begin with, fell bitterly short. He had been taken aback at the monster Gustavus became on the battlefield- no longer a king, but a demon of the deepest hell, cutting down defenceless people with his longsword and creating a crimson spray wherever he went. The soldiers were in equal awe and fear of their new young leader. Often there was no better way to prove worth than in war, and Gustavus did just that. Every war council Sweden attended, he could not help but be impressed by the king's sharp intelligence, his eye for strategy and the cold determination with which he faced every new challenge. And yet, there was far more to him than met the eye. _As with everyone._ Sweden firmly believed in two sorts of people- those with souls laid bare to the world, whether willingly or not, and a smaller group whose minds were only their own. Gustavus belonged in that second category. He had a brittle feeling to him, one that slipped through the cracks on occasion. And with that brittleness came anger. Anger for the death of his father, an ill-judged ruler though he was, at the situation he had been thrust into, at everything that threatened the Swedish Empire. _The boy cannot see past it._ The Danish, much like Denmark himself, were an easily provoked people. King Christian and his army would come charging to destroy them as soon as news of the raids came out. It was all of this combined- the violence, the burnings, the constant clang of steel swords- that brought Sweden to the conclusion that perhaps it was not worth it. _But I swore to be loyal._ And he would never dream of being anything else.

Three weeks after the raids began, Gustavus agreed to a few days' rest in the large town of Vittsjö. It was Danish property by right, yet the people there were still Swedish, and so their battered army was welcomed in and given fresh supplies. Finland worked on his swordfighting relentlessly during that time. He could be seen at any time in the little castle courtyard, slashing at the air and practicing cuts, hacking at wooden posts with the weight of full armour on his back. When Sweden offered to spar with him, his only response was a silent nod. That particular fight ended in no more than a few minutes. Not through any fault of Sweden's, but he simply had not thought Finland would come at him in such a ruthless way. _Something is troubling him._ Sweden supposed it was his duty to know what, yet such things remained far beyond him. And Finland had ever been a cryptic character. But he could not concern himself with that for long, because not five days after they had stopped in Vittsjö, the scouts brought in news of the one thing Sweden had prayed would not happen.

'How close?' snapped Gustavus.

'Well, Your Grace-'

 _'How close?'_

'Two days. At the most.' The king let out a long sigh, pressing gloved fingers to his temples.

'All of you. Out.' Sweden moved to leave, but was stopped by a hand clutching at his shoulder. Something curled unpleasantly within him. Meetings alone with Gustavus never ended well. 'Sit.' Sweden sat, accepting the glass of wine that the king shoved towards him. 'Drink.' It stung his throat, strong and bitter.

'You do understand that there is nothing we can do, Your Grace?'

'Of course I understand that.' Gustavus forced a smile, then let a frown replace it when that did not work. 'But the Swedish Empire never stands down. It never gives up. That way, it will never fall.

'Your father's words.' He remembered it well. King Charles had always been one for a dramatic speech, if not fulfilling the promises he made in those speeches.

'The words of a fool,' said the king, pouring himself some wine and draining it in a single gulp. 'Sometimes the best thing to do is to surrender, to acknowledge the strength of the other side.' He had never looked more like the child he was than in that moment: hands cupped nervously around his goblet, eyes flickering from floor to ceiling, panic showing in the chapped lines of his lips. Yet what he had just said showed more wisdom than some kings displayed in reigns decades long. Sweden twisted his hands together, noticing only now how the nails were grimy and dirt-rimmed. _The hands of a fighter._ But he knew he was not made to fight. To love, to touch gently, caress and treasure. War did not suit Sweden.

'What are you going to do?' he asked in a quiet voice.

'Run, I suppose.' For a moment, they just sat like that; one ancient, beaten-down soul peering anxiously at its still-fierce counterpart. Gustavus inspired him as no king had done for decades- yet only to end the war and return home. Not to fight a day longer.

'Then we shall run.'

They readied themselves under a clouded navy sky, armour snapping into place with metallic clicks and horses whinnying gently at the cold. Sweden waited with Finland and King Gustavus at the head of the column. He was shivering under all that steel plate, and it did not get any better when they began to move. The wind was harsh and thin, swirling about their faces like a cruel whip of ice. _Please, please let there be a village soon._ His eyes slid shut and he gave his horse its head, nodding off in the saddle. Fate was cruel. Sweden began to dream- of a warm room with a roaring fire, curtains shut tightly against the blizzard, all the comfort he could need and Finland by his side-

'Sweden.' A voice snapped him out of the hazy image. Sweden could have wept, so piercing was the cold that met his open eyes. 'They're here. We need to change direction.' It was only then that he realised the voice belonged to Finland. Yet it had addressed Sweden blankly, even harshly. Just like a stranger would.

'Fin-'

'You need to move. Now.' Finland trotted off to join Gustavus. Sweden followed, urging his horse past the rest of the column, but inside his head was a riot of thoughts. _What is wrong with him? What have I done?_ For it could only be his fault. They were free now, Finland his own nation in all but name. Which meant any discontent could be blamed on Sweden. And now the Danish army was clearly audible, a thundering of hooves and swords unsheathing, all the power and terror and glory that he had once been allowed to share in. Gustavus' forces were tired and slow by comparison. They ambled past, darkness their ally, hoping that the descending army would bypass them in the gloom.

'To the bridge,' someone at the front whispered. It continued down the column in a low hiss, as though some sinister wind curled about their heads. 'To the bridge!' He could see it, a long, low platform of wood silhouetted against lifting clouds- and so too the horsemen, hundreds and hundreds, armour shining silver in the emerging moonlight.

'Damn them,' growled Gustavus. 'Damn them to the deepest hell.' His forehead shone sickly white with perspiration, despite the cold, and the panic in his eyes was far too young for Sweden's liking.

'We cannot hope to cross-'

'I know! I know we can't cross! So what _are_ we going to do?' Sweden glanced down at the river. He could almost imagine Denmark waiting there, stupid smirk fixed in place and sword held ready to carve him in two. _Not that way. Never._ With the utmost caution, he edged his horse forward until its front hooves stood on the water. On the ice.

'It's frozen, Your Grace.' Never had four small words sounded so beautiful. They were safe; the Danish would surely not realise what was happening until it was too late. Gustavus, still a fickle youth, brightened at once.

'Lead the way.' Sweden thought he had known fear before, had seen in in the eyes of others and felt it deep within his own heart. But this was petrifying beyond anything else in the world. His life, guarded by a sheet of ice that could be six metres or six inches thick, for all he knew. No one could swim in armour. Which meant that if he fell in, even all the considerable perks to being a nation would be rendered useless. _For Sweden. For freedom._

He set off across the frozen water.

It warped sound, somehow, a dull, glassy sound echoing through the air with every tread of a hoof.

'Odin have mercy,' muttered Sweden, again and again. 'Odin have mercy upon us.' Finland beside him was saying something similar, a chant in his own tongue that stumbled whenever his horse did. The king held a golden cross to his lips, eyes tight shut and one hand holding the reins loosely. Which was why he did not see, mere seconds later, a patch of ice that was somewhat lighter than the rest. His horse went first, one leg breaking audibly as it folded upon the shattering surface. Gustavus followed, struggling as he went, calling out for aid in a voice that was already weak with cold. Sweden's every sense came to a screeching halt. The king, this young boy who he had pinned all his hopes and dreams on- he was going to die. And there was nothing anyone could do.

'The king!' yelled Finland. 'THE KING!' He vaulted off his horse just as Gustavus' pale face drifted out of sight.

'Get help,' he snapped at Sweden, tearing off his heavy steel breastplate. 'Do something!'

'I- I can't.' All he could hear was ice breaking, again and again, all he could see was the helpless frame of his monarch floundering like a fish in armour, then sinking down, down, down.

'For fuck's sake.' hissed Finland. And then he dived into the water. For a moment Sweden could not do so much as breathe. The pool rippled, anxious somehow, waves rocking about from the people it had swallowed up.

'The king!' called a voice. 'Where is he?' Sweden opened his mouth, but all that came out was a gasp. One finger rose and pointed at the dark opening. More words were spoken- curses, prayers, yells- but they were curiously muffled to his ears. Because all Sweden could hear, still, _still_ , was shattering and screaming and plunging. And now hoofbeats rang out behind them like thunder, so loud they might have been right next to his head; five minutes more, perhaps even less.

'Save them,' A soldier shook his head.

'They're gone, m'lord. Too cold in there.'

'The king is dead. Long live-'

'No.' A wonderful clarity filled his head: he could not let this happen, it was his duty as a nation, duty, duty, duty, all he had ever known. With steady hands and a steady conscience, Sweden dismounted his horse and began to undo the straps of his armour. 'Help me.' More hands came, fumbling at the polished metal and letting it fall away. Someone sang, in a quavering, gentle voice. It took him not a second to recognise the tune. A battle song- but one of final stands and sacrifices made for nothing. A song for the dead. He lifted his head, free of its helmet, and let the winds of home stroke across his face. _Farewell, brother,_ they seemed to sing. _You have borne our name well._ Sweden took one last look at the army he planned to save. 'Do not give up.' And then he was gone.

The water was so cold that it stung him, prickling all across his face and forcing his eyes wide open. A tangible, malevolent cold- a smothering cold. Sweden followed his instincts and dived deep, ignoring the chill spreading through his bones. _Somewhere. Please. Let them be alive._ He had never been fond of the water. As much as a Viking should be, familiar with boats and their machinations, but never as Denmark had adored its steel-grey splashes. To his brother, this lake would have been another challenge, another obstacle to overcome. Not a source of imminent death. _I still loathe him. He will ever be an enemy._ But it was that enemy that bore him further and further down, pushed away the pressure building up all over and encouraged him to keep going. And there- at last, after far too long- a face. Its eyes were squeezed tight shut, skin pale and deathly as snow. Yet Sweden would always know Finland. Gustavus floated beside him, held up by one hand and clearly unconscious. That armour...not enough time to take it off, only strength enough to carry one... He had to choose. Sweden the man, or Sweden the country? Both desired different things. But Sweden the country had endured far longer, weathered countless storms alone. Sweden the man would have to wait. He pulled Gustavus up, out of Finland's weakening grasp, eyes shining with regret. _I am so, so sorry, my love._ And Finland drifted out of sight.

He came back to life with a splutter and a gasp, the wind on his face whipping away droplets of equally freezing water. Hands clutched at the king, dragging him upright and pulling off his sodden armour. Someone tried to put a cloak around Sweden's shoulders, but he shrugged it off.

'I have to go back in,' he managed through heaving lungs. 'My friend- still there-'

'Let him go.' said Gustavus. He was dazed-looking, uncontrollable shivers wracking his whole body, yet that familiar blue fire burned in his eyes. 'He will return.' The cloak fell away. To his horror, Sweden felt guilt rising up in him, a selfish desire to stay up here and get warm. _When the king commands, I must obey._ So he ducked back under the surface. Somehow it was worse this time, already-soaked clothes receiving a fresh wave of ice. And Finland- Finland was nowhere to be seen. Sweden dived down for a second time, though his arms ached and his lungs burned. No sight of him. Nothing. Deeper, deeper. Only black water. He wanted desperately to take a breath, so much that even the thought of air was painful. Something echoed across his ears- a choked scream, it sounded like. No doubt the hallucinations had already begun. But Sweden swam towards the noise regardless, driven by some base instinct for survival. _If I can reach it, then I will live._ He put out a hand, reaching blindly. It closed upon something undeniably tangible. If this was not Finland, then he had wasted time, breath and lives. So Sweden took a chance. He kicked up towards the surface even as his strength was draining, one hand curled around the cold shape and the other stretching out above. After what felt like an age, it brushed against ice again. Panic snaked around Sweden's mind. They were nowhere near the opening, he had an unconscious Finland in tow, and now the Danish cavalry were making themselves heard loud and clear above. He punched the cold ceiling as hard as he could. Cold pain shot through his fist- and a web of cracks shot through the ice. Sweden punched again and again, until blood rained down his arm and stained the water a tainted pink. At last, his head met the sweet kiss of winter air.

'Fin,' he said urgently, still gulping in huge breaths. 'Fin, say something.' There was no response. His eyes were half open, dull purple slits amongst a sea of ashen marble, and his mouth hung slack. _A dead man,_ Sweden could not help thinking. 'Wake up!' He slammed his palms down onto Finland's chest. Horse hooves clacked across the ice; they were coming, drawing ever closer, the final death knell-

'Wake up!' He pounded at Finland's heart once, twice, three times, each inciting nothing from the lifeless body. A warhorn blew. It was wild-sounding, the melody harsh and strangled, and that alone forced Sweden's head up into some half-forgotten memory. There was a demon bearing down upon him- a demon in red-and-black enamelled armour, holding a torch aloft with one hand and a sword outstretched in the other. The demon wore his brother's face. Denmark was illuminated in the bobbing light, glorious and terrible, hair glowing almost reddish gold and his eyes wide with fury. Sweden found his own anger just in time. He rose to his feet, cradling Finland's limp frame. _You do not frighten me, brother._ A fleeing horse charged past, and Sweden grasped its reins, heaving Finland into the saddle and leaping up behind him. 'Come on,' he said through gritted teeth. Now came his least favourite part- the chase. Denmark's hoofbeats crashed behind him with horrifying volume. _This is your end,_ they called. _There is no escape for you now._ Denmark was better armoured, better equipped, better prepared, and certainly not freezing from diving into an icy lake twice in one night. And Sweden kept on riding all the same.

'Give it up, Sweden!' called a voice he had not heard in nearly a hundred years. 'I'm the stronger one now!' _No. You will never be stronger than me, no matter the power of your nation._

'Almost there,' he mumbled to no one in particular. 'Almost home now.'

'Berwald!' He looked up to see the king, stood high in his stirrups and waving a burning torch like Denmark's. 'We're breaking the ice! Get over here now!' Sweden made a silent apology to the horse before digging in his spurs and galloping harder than ever. Every snowflake that hit his face was like a tiny knife, piercing and tearing with icy fingers. At last they made it past the Swedish ranks. A line of men holding spears stabbed them down simultaneously, cracking the lake's surface all the way round so the Danish cavalry were trapped.

'Damn you!' Sweden heard over the wind. 'Damn you, _lillebror!_ ' That was the last he saw of Denmark for a while- a still-flickering flame riding away tall and proud, Norway's serene figure just visible beside him. A low jealousy curled deep in the pit of Sweden's stomach. His brothers had a true home, a family completed by Iceland, everything he wanted but was denied to him. _They do not deserve such joy. Not after all the hurt, all the wars_. Sweden vowed that one day, he would find his happiness and hold onto it. _One day._

From the day they returned to Stockholm, a tension seemed to exist between Sweden and Finland. Neither of them acknowledged it, settling into their new routine of uncomfortable silences as though it had always been that way. Finland at least was more distant. He no longer sought out Sweden's bed each night, but let Sweden come to his without a word of complaint. That in itself was worrying, even hurtful. _He will not turn me away. Surely he must still care, somewhere inside him?_ Another thing they did not talk about was the Battle of Vittsjö. Finland had been there, had seen Sweden choose to pull their king out first. The ordeal accounted for his bruised lungs and dry cough- yet Sweden could take responsibility for everything else. For cold, unwilling embraces, more of duty than desire. For monotone replies, and the terror that if either of them breached the topic, this frail equilibrium would come crashing down about their heads. It was a blustery night in early spring when Sweden finally plucked up the courage to ask. They lay in Finland's somewhat lumpy bed, hands clasped together loosely and not meeting each other's eyes.

'Tino,' said Sweden, voice soft and hesitant. 'You've been- been different lately. Quieter. Tell me what's wrong.' He gave Finland's hand a squeeze, brushing light fingers across his collarbone. There was no reply. 'Fin?' Finland breathed in deeply, then out. In, out. Asleep, it would seem. Or so he wanted it to seem. Sweden looked at him- looked at him properly, as he had not done for months. He saw the perfect almond shape of Finland's eyes, with their sweep of long, dark lashes, but also the fatigue in their tensed lids. Wiry, corded muscles, clenched fists. Even his hair fell straight across his forehead. _Everything about him has turned to stone._ But it was a brittle, imperfect stone. _I am terrified,_ realised Sweden. Terrified of losing this creature of strength and beauty, of losing their fond little flicker of love and all the potential of the centuries ahead. It was unfathomable to Sweden, how Denmark and Norway had been together for so long without any visible conflict between them. They argued, yes, but only over the pettiest of things. His situation with Finland was identical. Kingdom and colony, doomed to love one another- yet somehow he could not quite work out the balance. _I was mere property once, Denmark's thrall_. Which made Finland the colony of a colony. And now he belonged to an empire on the brink of destruction, to fallen kings and tarnished crowns. Sweden had never been so obviously handsome as Denmark, never as charismatic. Finland lacked Norway's ice and his perfect composure, both traits that should have repelled people from him but only drew them closer instead. They were too emotional, felt too deeply without being able to describe how.

'I will love you again,' he murmured. 'Even if it takes me a thousand lifetimes. I will find you amongst all this mess, and make everything right again. I swear it.' Then Sweden stood- severing a bond, or merely prolonging it? He slipped from Finland's side and returned to the relative chill of his own room. The door locked with a click- sharp, cold, final.

Yet despite his promise, tensions only rose that spring in Stockholm. Their campaign was daunted even more with the fall of Älvsborg and Gullberg, testaments to the strength and determination of the Danish army. Sweden lost faith in his own with every passing day. King Gustavus spent hours shut away alone, poring over maps whilst his lands crumbled in the real world.

'Do you think it's his fault?' Sweden said one particularly dismal night. They sat opposite a crackling fire, drawn to books as ever, drawn irrevocably and foolishly to the past.

'No.' replied Finland. He used his courtier's voice around Sweden now. Polite, friendly, but restrained. None of the familiarity they had once shared remained now. 'He has proven his wisdom, both on the battlefield and off it. This mood is the boy, not the king.' Sweden had to admit the sense in that. He was searching constantly for someone to blame, someone or something to pin all his fears on in the futile hope that they might shrink. But this revelation only made it seem more likely to be his fault. _My fault because I left, because I could not keep my peace with Denmark. I ran away, and now he will never welcome me back._

'His grandfather-'

'Gustavus is not his grandfather, nor is he any of your other kings. He is brash, but reasoned, fiery but just. I believe he is just the leader you have been looking for.' With that, Finland left, not bothering to bid him goodnight. Sweden knew better than to hope for kisses now. They had not shared a bed for nearly a month, since the night he made his tremulous promise. But what jarred him tonight was 'yours' and 'you', blatant references to rulers that Finland did not share. What it meant he did not bother to decipher. Only distance, distance and flickering time.

'Riders! Riders at the gate!' He watched them come in, stood alone on Stockholm's lofty battlements. At least twenty guardsmen, followed by two figures resplendent on fine horses, again tailed by another score of guards. Important, that meant. He turned back into the castle and descended the stairs. Finland waited for him in the entrance hall. They exchanged brisk nods just as the two visitors entered, pulling off gloves and shaking out cloaks.

'I am sorry to impose upon you like this,' said the shorter of the two. He was forthright-looking, with straw-yellow hair that was ruffled from riding and a rather large pair of eyebrows.

'It has been too long,' replied Sweden in English. 'This is Arthur, but we can call him England.' he told Finland, who shook England's hand with his usual bright smile

'Indeed, indeed.' said England heavily. 'Forgive me-' He swept an arm out, introducing his companion. 'This is Jan, or Netherlands. I believe your countries have dealt together before?'

'We certainly have.' Sweden shook a hand that was cool and smooth against his own. Netherlands was tall, nearly of a height with Sweden himself, his hair blond and spiked in a way that was all too familiar. He swallowed his sudden unease and moved away to let Finland greet Netherlands (taller than Denmark, face sterner, eyes colder, but similar enough to be almost his ghost).

'We have come for a serious purpose,' said Netherlands, speaking for the first time in halting English. 'If there is somewhere we can go?'

'Follow me.' Finland beamed again, leading the four of them off into one of the smaller antechambers. 'I imagine His Grace has already been informed of your presence. If you would like to meet-'

'Not yet.' England's face grew dark as soon as the door closed behind them. 'This concerns you. Both of you, as nations.' Sweden felt an anticpation rising within him that was suspiciously redolent of his Viking days. 'To put it bluntly, this war could destroy trade in Europe forever.' It took him a minute to register England's words properly. Their little war, no more than another contest between estranged brothers? Sweden wanted to deny it with all his might. But Arthur, in all the years they had fought and known one another, was ever a serious being.

'The Hanseatic League-'

'This is little to do with the League.' Netherlands' voice was full of bored loathing. He stood with his arms folded and leaning against the wall, face a study in nonchalance. 'Denmark stands as a crucial trade point between Northern Europe and the rest of the continent. If things continue as before, our economies will suffer greatly. Yours in particular.' The words were harsh, yet they rang all too true in Sweden's ears.

'You want our help.'

'Within reason.' He met Finland's eyes, and saw nothing but blank resignation reflected there. _It seems I must do this alone._

'We ask only that you come to a truce with Denmark and Norway, or at least suppress their forces.' said England, trying to be reasonable.

'Arthur, please. You know them. You know that what you ask is impossible.' Netherlands waved a careless hand.

'And yet someone must find a way. We hoped that would be you, _Zweden_. Do not disappoint us.' Finland's arm shot out, grasping at his sleeve.

'You must accept, Ruotsi.' he muttered in rapid-fire Swedish. 'You must be prepared to sacrifice everything if we are to keep our freedom.' For some unwelcome reason, a lump swelled up in Sweden's throat, and he resisted the urge to wipe his now hazy glasses. _That is the most emotion I have seen from him in weeks, months._ Almost like the Finland of old, the Finland that would smile and kiss him uncaring in front of anyone.

'I- I have to-'

'Do you accept?' Netherlands seemed to grow colder with every passing moment.

'I accept.' Sweden mumbled at last.

'Swear it by your status as a nation. Swear it in the lifeblood of Sweden.' His eyes flickered up to England, bewildered. England's only response was to whip out a bone-handled knife from his riding jacket and lay it with cool decisiveness on Sweden's palm. Five trembling fingers curled around the blade's cruel length. Something loosened in Netherlands' face when blood seeped out onto the floor, and he offered Sweden a white cloth to wipe his hands on.

'I do not need to swear as well?' said Finland, uncertainty creeping into his features for the first time.

'If you deem it necessary.' Netherlands pushed himself off the wall, making to leave. 'I suppose His Grace wishes to see us now?'

'The council chamber is just through here.' But even as Sweden spoke, he could not divert his gaze away from the taut set of Finland's face. He was rarely angered- this situation seemed to be an exception. And again Sweden sensed that the conniving claws of independence were digging their way into another victim.

In the end, meeting Gustavus was a mere formality. He greeted the visiting nations with exemplary etiquette, expressed his regrets that the war with Denmark was having such a severe effect on their trade routes, and swore to do all he could to end it, one way or another. England and Netherlands also promised to bolster the Swedish army with their own forces. Both were notorious for their fervour in battle, England in particular. All of Europe remembered the Spanish Armada's crushing defeat back in 1588. Now they focused all of their attention on preparing Stockholm for a siege: draining all the wells in the area, burning crops, barring village gates. _Poison the land, and it cannot be lived in for long,_ Gustav Vasa had said once. His words rang true even nearly a hundred years later. Sweden and Finland honed their skills in the yard again, battering each other with blunted swords and flimsy shields until they woke each morning with a fresh crop of bruises. Sometimes- though Sweden hoped beyond hope that he was imagining it- Finland's blows were so wild, so fiercely strong, that every one seemed to be fuelled with fury. Figuring out the cause of that fury proved to be impossible. _Unless it is directed at me._ In which case Sweden's promise to win him back- one of thousands, embedded throughout the centuries in cruel clusters of memory- was one made in vain. But he would never give up. Never give up, never betray, never forego an oath. They made him swear and swear, sign treaty after treaty. One day there would be too many to even catch a glimpse of where Sweden's true loyalties lay.

The Danish arrived after two weeks. He heard them before he saw them, an ominous pounding of hooves upon barren land, armour jangling and battle songs weaving their way to Sweden like little reminders of doom. _We will win. No one can breach these walls._ Yet doubt came back to haunt him when the army finally came into view. They camped a good distance away, out of the range of the Swedish cannons. Crimson and white tents lined the horizon as far as he could see, a defiant display of Denmark's colours.

'It will be good to see them again,' came England's voice at his shoulder.

'Who?'

'Your brothers. Devils on the battlefield, from what I remember. And hardly angels off it, I hear.'

'Too damned right.' muttered Sweden, brushing an imaginary speck of dirt from his cloak. His mind was doused in the bittersweet past, in memories of a battle on some desolate English shore, his brothers beside him carving out their victory in scarlet streams. _Red blood, red fury, red glory. It was always Denmark, always his red rage and his red passion_. But now blue was on the rise- Sweden's own dark azure flag topped every battlement. He raised his head to the cerulean sky, and prayed that his freedom would hold.

They raided the Danish camp most nights, coming down in legions of twenty and setting fire to the baggage train, killing when they could get away with it. King Christian's tent was the main prize, a large structure of golden silk and vermillion embroidery. Sweden could think of nothing he would like more than to burn the thing in all its excessive finery, destroying maps, clothes, carpets, everything that stood against his own King Gustavus. He came close once or twice, only to be deterred by half a dozen guards even bigger than he was. But despite this minor setback, Sweden was emerging as the clear victor. There was no water left, no food, and what resources the Danish had were burnt and destroyed in the nightly raids. _How does it feel, sweet brother?_ thought Sweden as he swung his sword across the throat of another enemy. _How does it feel to be the weak one now?_ Another fighter sprang forward. He jabbed out almost carelessly with his weapon- and stopped short when it was met with steel instead of flesh. Cold indigo eyes met his own. Deep as a thousand oceans, those eyes, with all the dark beauty of star sapphires reflected in their irises. Sweden did not want this fight. He did not want to think about what would happen at its end. But duty was duty, enemies were not friends, and so he lifted his sword once again.

Norway fought well, as he had always done. Snaking, weaving, more in the head than in the hands, flashing out with a hidden dagger when he could. There was a wild grace to his movements that Sweden grew to dread. For who could defeat pure silk, running water, a storm with a sword? _Not today,_ he thought desperately as Norway landed a cut upon his forearm. _Please, not now._

'Not today.'

'It will never get any easier.' said his brother in Old Norse, in that voice of spellbindery and bewitchment. The pale streaks of hair falling in his face reminded Sweden, somewhat painfully, of Finland. _But Finland would never fight me like this. Not in truth._ At least, he thought he believed it. Norway was going to win, any fool could see. He was smoother, more skilled, with that irritating ability of cutting off all emotional attachment to his foe. Yet Sweden's saviour was the last person on earth he would have chosen to fulfil that role.

'Norge!' yelled a voice from somewhere behind them.

'Over here.' Norway called back through gritted teeth, still hammering away at Sweden's faltering defence. There was half a shout- then a strangled gasp. It appeared Denmark was lost for words. With all his usual tact, he forced himself between their fight, facing Norway determinedly.

'Are you all right...need to go now...' Sweden heard through ringing ears. He saw a gloved hand come up and brush a spot of blood from Norway's face. Norway reddened, though he did not push it away.

'This was a pointless battle. Be sure to mention that when the king asks you to justify our loss.' With that, Norway took his leave. Something white-hot was bubbling up inside Sweden, a devastating rage that filled him to the brim with a fire that burned both freezing and boiling. There had been affection between his brothers- he had dared to hope, wanted to believe that they would have drifted apart by now- blatant and obvious, done for his eyes. Finland's rebukes came flooding back on a sea of grief.

'You don't deserve that. Neither of you do.' His eyes locked onto Denmark; onto his helmetless head, the little line of skin just exposed under the neck of his armour. _I could do it. I could take his head off, the only way to end him for sure._ Denmark turned around to meet his gaze, and the arrogance in his eyes was bright and alive as ever. Charisma, some called it. Sweden knew better.

'Yet we have it anyway.' He walked away then, taking with him the last chance to end an enmity that had smouldered for centuries.

Sweden plucked up the courage to enter Finland's room that night.

'We did it,' he murmured, dropping weary arms around Finland. A steady violet gaze met his own in the mirror.

'The war is far from over. They have not surrendered, nor have they agreed to a truce.' Sweden sighed. He wanted one moment of peace, one moment to be happy and revel in the victory of the day.

'You don't smile anymore. You don't talk to me, you don't hold me like you used to, you don't ever tell me what's going on in your head. What happened, Fin?' Finland's face blanched sickly white.

'This war happened. You're fighting for your independence, and all it does is destroy me a little more each time.' He held out a tremulous hand. 'Look. Look at that.' It was skeletal, skin stretched too tight over the bones.

'Why didn't you tell me?' Again pained eyes met his own.

'Because you wouldn't have heard. Oh, you'd listen, then run off to your next meeting and plan your next battle. And I just sit here. I sit, and fade away a little more each day.' Sweden put strong arms around him, and was relieved when Finland at least did the same.

'I still want this to work,' he murmured into Finland's hair. 'I've wanted for it longer than I know, longer than makes sense. I- I'm sorry.' When Finland's lips met his own- chilled, feather-light but gentle- he knew he was forgiven. And he knew he must try harder if he was to keep this frail bond.

A letter arrived from Copenhagen not long after that day. King Christian had agreed to a truce. What followed was days of travelling, of signing documents and shaking hands and avoiding his brothers. But at last it was done. At last, they were freed from the tangled, bloody knot of war, though not without cost. Nordland was ceded to Denmark, as were the Scanian territories in the south. Sweden's worst memory of that time was the day he watched an endless trail of wagons roll by, all heaped to the brim with the silver coins that were King Christian's compensation. Yet one good thing had come from all their losses. England and Netherlands played an active part in the negotiations, eventually convincing Christian to lift the Sound Dues that had been the root of so many Dano-Swedish wars. Sweden was impoverished, his greatest rival rich beyond reason- and they were finally at peace. Sweden felt as though he could rest at long last. Until the next war, Finland was fond of saying. His quarrel with Denmark was still unresolved. But out there, across vast oceans and stretching lands, was the world. _A world full of possibility. A world full of hope._


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: So once again I'm making a load of apologies XD. First of all, I'm sorry that I forgot to add in dates and places in the last chapter, it completely slipped my mind whilst editing. Also I have some possibly important news about chapters: this one and the next will deviate away from history slightly, as they are based on my personal headcanons and official canon material that did not necessarily happen in real life. This is to give you all a break from reading battle scenes (and it gives me an excuse to write some self-indulgent fluff :D). However, they are still integral to the plot! It's just one of my ways of customising the story already given to me by history :D Also, an absolutely huge thank you to everyone who has favourited, followed, and most of all reviewed! Your words keep me going through the writer's block and one particularly long and lovely guest review almost brought a tear to my eye :') thank you very, very much! SO let me know what you thought of this, and I hope you like it!**

 **Copenhagen, May 1625**

On the day they returned from negotiations in Knäred, something seemed to shift within Denmark. He looked back upon the past, upon years of pointless fights and wasteful wars, and a thought occurred to him- it all meant nothing. For so long he had told himself that violence was the answer, that only by defeating his enemies would the cold hands around his heart loosen. But that all seemed to matter less now. Victory was theirs once again, though not without its drawbacks. Yet returning home, seeing Iceland's dour little face light up into something glorious, filled him with more joy than a thousand treasure-laden wars ever could. He pondered the question long and hard. What mattered- truly, in the depths of a human heart- what kept a person's will alight? The answer presented itself to Denmark one seemingly mundane morning, without any of the airs of enlightenment that he expected. He had been sat with Norway and Iceland, watching the sunrise lift its dusky golden head over an ink-streak horizon, when a single word came to him. Family. That was when he knew- this was something worth protecting, something to live and fight for. So Denmark lived for his family now. Not for the formal monotony of the council chamber, where for so long King Christian had fretted over Protestant-Catholic hierarchies and his own status as leader of the Lutheran cause. Even when war broke out in Europe, a bitter contest of religion that threatened to drag on for decades, Denmark was not unduly troubled. At long last, he had learnt to let go.

Summer in Copenhagen was a pleasant affair. Sunlight gilded rooftops, rivers, church spires and iron gates, its rays stronger than their weak winter counterparts. Children frolicked in the streets from dawn till dusk, and there was a constant passage of boats meandering their way up the Øresund Sound. A warm, cheerful time; a time for peace. Iceland in particular loved the summer. His favourite haunt was a thin strip of beach up in in the north of Sjaelland, where seals peered through the roaring tide and the sand was soft beneath their bare feet. So it came as a surprise to Denmark when, one hazily bright day in June, Iceland made an unusual request of him.

'I want to visit my home,' he announced, crossing his little arms. Denmark had to smile. 'This is your home.' he replied, glancing up briefly from a stack of legal documents. 'Aren't Nor and I enough for you?' Iceland sighed with affected exasperation.

'You know what I mean, Dan. My _real_ home. I live here with you and Noregur, but that's not where I'm really from.' He knew what Iceland was talking about- of course he did. _We have not visited it in centuries._ Denmark forced himself to smile, setting down his quill pen and gesturing for Iceland to sit on his knee. The boy did as he was bidden, though there was a doubtful air about him that did not suit his young face.

'You mean the place where you were born.' Iceland gave a quick, jerky nod. 'You've never wanted to go there before, Island.' said Denmark, stroking through Iceland's pale hair in an attempt to alleviate his obvious uncertainty. 'What's changed?' But he knew the answer already. The process that all nations underwent, no matter how long they stayed a child for. _He is growing up. At last, after so many centuries._ And somehow Denmark could not picture him as an adult, taking part in his country's politics and discussing matters of state with the king. _I must protect him for a little while longer._

'I feel it,' whispered Iceland. 'I can feel the land, Dan.' His arms snaked around Denmark, cold and trembling. 'I need to see it, or something bad will happen.'

'Nothing will happen,' Denmark said automatically, bringing him closer to ward off the sudden chill. 'But I'll discuss it with Nor, all right? Maybe we can go there later this month.' But no sooner were the words out than he had to curb a sob of terror. A nation's connection to their land was important for sustaining strength. Yet what Iceland had spoken of- the irresistible pull, the indescribable bond that was too strong to resist- meant only one thing. Rising power, and with it independence. But Denmark was not ready to let Iceland go yet. And it tore at him, heart-wrenchingly, soul-crushingly, to know that a day might come when he had to do just that.

Later that night, he sought out Norway to ease the sudden ache in his heart.

'Nor,' said Denmark, hovering hesitantly by the library door. That familiar pale head lifted a little, and he caught a flash of indigo eyes.

'What is it?'

'It's about Ice.' Straight away Norway's attention was captured; he turned around, gesturing for Denmark to sit beside him. 'He...' All his words drained away. There was nothing to encapsulate this feeling, nothing that would convey his unease now that time had finally begun to catch up. 'He wants to visit his homeland.' Homeland- a bland, impersonal word. _Better that we do not attach emotion to it. Because then, it might be real._ Norway exhaled slowly, setting down his book and knitting his long fingers together.

'We should take him.' In so many words, he had described Denmark's worst fear over what should have been a simple trip. Nations, whether they willed it or not, were drawn irrevocably to their land of origin. And Denmark did not think he could stand to have another family member leave him.

'But you know what this means,' he said, voice not much more than a limp whisper. 'You know what happens afterwards, what always happens.'

'I know.' Norway's clammy hand found his and clutched it, hard.

'It feels stupid, to get worried about it.' He laughed to try and alleviate some of the pain, but all it did was tighten the cold choke around his throat. _Laugh at danger, at sorrow, at darkness, like I've always done._ It was better than weeping- yet he would weep all the same. 'But Nor-' His eyes scanned Norway in a frenzied panic, searching for a crack in the layer of mystery that still separated them infinitesimally. '-he's like my- like our child. Iceland's your brother, but...' Again speech evaded Denmark's lips, skirting away from this most delicate of topics.

'Iceland is going to grow up, Den. One day he'll be like we are now. And that's something you have to accept.' He stared at Norway, bewildered. His discerning mind never failed to surprise Denmark, not even after all their centuries together.

'So you've accepted it?' An ember leapt and cracked in the fireplace as Norway pondered his answer. His face, as ever, resembled nothing more than a blank mask of apathy. Over the years, Denmark had discovered the small, subtle ways in which he showed emotion- a darkening of the eyes, rose-tinted skin- and trusted that those little signs reciprocated his own outward passion. Yet now there was nothing to go by. No way of knowing Norway's innermost thoughts, the dreams and desires of his heart.

'I suppose I have.' he said at last, dropping Denmark's hand to push back an unruly lock of hair. Everything about him in that moment was highlighted by the fire's soft glow; the dark, luminous eyes, the clear pale skin and gently curved lips. 'We'll be there for the end of the world. Ragnarok, Judgement Day, whatever you want to call it. Perhaps we'll go to heaven. But either way-' And with one of his rare displays of affection, those moments that Denmark treasured best, he pulled them close together in an almost-embrace. '-Ice will be grown up. We've raised him the best we can, Den, prepared him for eternity.' Denmark drew in to complete the scene, only to find himself stopped by a hand on his chest. 'And I want you to see it,' whispered Norway. 'The place where I found him.' _The place where our family became complete._ Only then did he allow Denmark to move forward and numb their ache.

It was almost worth the pain when they told Iceland. His face lit up as though the gods themselves were smiling down, and the hug he gave them both was more than enough thanks.

'At least he's happy,' muttered Norway, watching his little brother as he dragged armfuls of clothes into a pile for packing.

'Yes.' It was a bittersweet sacrifice to make, though. This whole episode had roused fears in Denmark that he did not even know existed, an irrational anxiety that could only stem from past hurts. _Sweden. It always comes back to Sweden._ He had left them, and in doing so he opened a door of possibility for any of their other family members to do the same. Norway caught Denmark's wandering gaze and locked it with his own rigid one.

'He won't go,' came words that were meant to be comforting. Norway had ever possessed an uncanny ability to know just what Denmark was thinking, yet managed to be impassive when the occasion called for it. Sometimes it irked him, but now Denmark could only be thankful.

'You don't know that. Sweden might never have left, but he knew his land, his home. Maybe Ice will feel the same.' Fighting a battle of words with Norway would only end in defeat- and he intended to let Norway scorn his every anxiety first in a warp of tactics. Sure enough, those indigo eyes grew scathing.

'Sweden's your brother, and almost the same age. Nothing like what we have with Iceland. He couldn't leave, not after depending on us for so many centuries. And Sweden never really needed your protection, despite how much you wanted to give it to him.' That was his cue to nod and smile, to pretend that everything was all right.

'Of course he won't leave us.' said Denmark, half to himself. But whether it was a promise or just a lie he could not tell. _And these days there is little difference between the two._

 **The North Sea, en route from Copenhagen to Reykjavik, May 1625**

They left two days later, King Christian having bestowed his distracted blessing upon the trip. These days he only commanded that Denmark and Norway came to war councils, leaving them out of his struggles with the rest of the Lutheran world and warding off attempts to lure their kingdom into the war that raged across the rest of Europe.

'How long until we get there?' Iceland asked as soon as their ship cast off. The bright morning and the looming excitement of seeing his homeland had filled him with a riotous joy that made itself keenly felt, sending the boy dashing about across the decks in a pale little whirlwind.

'A long time.' Denmark told him. Being out at sea always calmed him, and he stood with his face to the wind, letting its familiar rough fingers streak through his hair. Copenhagen had long since faded away. 'Why don't you go and find Nor?' Silence followed soon after. He thought it strange, that this blue-grey steeled water should have the ability to both sooth his fraught nerves and fill his blood with a beautiful roaring. The Viking roar, passionate and wild. There was no anger in such a battle cry- and that was the difference Denmark had being trying to find for over a hundred years. _I am no longer angry_. Not here, with the waves to swallow up his grief and rage; not upon a sea that belonged to no one.

Somehow, over those next few days, Denmark reached a level of peace he would not have deemed possible. He and Norway gloried in the open waters, letting the heavy mantle of politics slip for a while. Each day the cold deepened a little. Iceland revelled in it, dashing outside whenever snow began to fall and tasting the white flakes on his tongue. Once they found him in the middle of the night, curled up by the prow under a spare sail with the stuff piling up on top of him like a pale frigid blanket.

'It felt like home,' he whispered when Norway picked him up, blue-lipped and delirious. That was when Denmark knew they were close. He bolted the door of Iceland's cabin each night, fully aware of how intoxicating the pull between a nation and their land could be. Indeed, his own bonds were loosening as well, in a way that was simultaneously terrifying and liberating. _The chains are falling away._ But they would always bind him, and he would always be thankful for the invisible compass pointing him home.

'Tell me this isn't so bad,' Norway murmured one night, when the snow was so thick that it piled up upon the deck.

'It's not so bad.' Denmark pulled him a little closer, pleased when he did not resist. 'We'll visit where you found Ice, spend a few days letting him look around his home, then return to Copenhagen.' He said it mechanically, as though reciting a list. Norway's cold feet pressed into his legs.

'You make it sound like a chore.' His voice betrayed nothing. Denmark hid his grin behind an affected yawn, amused and intrigued as he always was by Norway's little games. _Though I doubt I shall ever learn to play them._

'It was ever a cold and bitter place, Nor. I don't relish the thought of freezing my fingers off, if that's what you meant.'

'Of course that's not what I meant.' A short silence overcame them then. They lay across a bed that was slightly too small, bodies entwined to make up for it, sharing what little warmth they had. After a moment Norway's eyes locked with his own. 'But Iceland's been looking forward to this for days.'

'And you think I'd ruin it?' said Denmark, guessing at his meaning.

'I never said that. But Iceland's like me- he'd sense something was wrong.' Norway held his gaze evenly, eyes still enigmatic. Denmark moved closer, a half-formed thought in his mind that perhaps one good kiss would distract Norway, but it was not to be. Cool fingers pressed against his lips. The rejection was obvious and without malice. He knew Norway was waiting for him to say something- but what? Denmark was growing weary of this particular game.

'Nor-'

'Promise me something.' To say _anything_ was his first instinct, yet for once Denmark held back. 'Promise me that you have truly learned to let go.' His fatal flaw; his tragic hamartia. He had never been able to accept nature, retreating within himself whenever they lost a battle or a beloved monarch died. _I call myself brave. So face it. Face it._

'Iceland will grow up,' he said through numb lips. 'He will return to this place, one day. And I have accepted it.' Denmark waited, mouth dry and heart leaping, as Norway considered his words. He himself could not be sure if they rang true.

'I'm willing to believe it.' And now, it was a kiss that returned all his senses, bringing them back in all their prickling glory.

 **Reykavik, Iceland**

Iceland was still small enough that it had no capital city of its own, merely one large town and a cluster of inhabitants that survived solely of the land. Iceland the nation was bleak and ice-brushed; Iceland the boy leapt up and down in frenzied joy.

'Make them hurry up,' he begged, tugging at the hem of Denmark's cloak.

'We're nearly there, look.' The harbour was small but lively; fishermen hauled in nets full of writhing seafood, the townspeople stopped to buy the fresh catch, and the air was permeated with a strong, salty wind. They stepped into a wide rowing boat and were ferried to shore by a pair of sailors. Norway trailed one hand through the water, uncaring of the spray that dappled his cloak. _So cold, so close._ But no sooner did they step onto the docks than a visible change swept the harbour. There was a crash as two fishermen in salt-crusted jackets dropped their crate, heads turning in comical unison to ogle the visitors. Running children stopped in their tracks, stallholders paused in the middle of haggling, and it seemed as though every occupant of the town was staring directly at them.

'Storebror,' mumbled Iceland in a small voice. 'I think they're looking at me.' He stared right back, amethyst eyes drinking in the faces and voices and lives of his people.

'I'm sure they are.' Norway took his little brother's hand, Denmark the other, and together the three of them ventured further into Reykjavik. A man in sombre blue robes awaited them on the quayside, attended by half a dozen guards in red livery. _So even here the king's grasping fingers reach,_ thought Denmark, eyeing the crest of his kingdom with no small guilt.

'His Grace informed me of your coming,' said the man. He extended a hand- not to Denmark, whose monarch owned this island, or even Norway, whose colony it was- but to Iceland. The boy took it cautiously, casting a look back at his brothers. 'We are honoured to receive such esteemed guests.' His every word was polite and measured, betraying nothing of their true identities. Norway gave Iceland a gentle nudge.

'I- thank you.' he said, shy again. 'Are you the king?'

'King Christian is our sovereign by the grace of God. I am but a mere governor, appointed by His Grace.' That seemed to satisfy him; he nodded, and relinquished his grip on Norway with a determination that was endearing to see.

They were shown to a large house in the wider streets of the town, set aside for visiting rulers and nations. Iceland skipped as he walked, waving at every person who passed by and dampening the hem of his cloak in puddles. His original wariness had worn off, replaced by a familiar burgeoning excitement, the ebullient joy that Denmark had naturally come to associate with his charge. So great was his relief, he dared to link an arm through Norway's, and was pleased when his gesture was not rejected. Every howl of wind and drop of rain brought with it a memory. The cold here was different to back home, more blunt and biting, with a constant shower of water that was apt to turn into hail.

'I remember raiding this place,' murmured Denmark, quiet so Iceland would not hear him. 'The people were ours really, but not part of our kingdom.'

'So we took it, just like we took everything back then.' Norway finished for him. It had been a different breed of Norsemen who lived here, rugged old adventurers who could lift two battleaxes without breaking a sweat- not the sort who took kindly to having a king tell them what to do. But in the end there had simply not been enough of them. So the southern Vikings came, plundered, burnt, then built anew. _We killed without care then._ Though he did not mind so much; without the invasions, it would never have gained strength, and without strength the Iceland they knew would never have existed. At last, they stopped outside the house that was to be theirs for as long as they might need it. It was tall and wide, with four shuttered windows and an intricate brass knocker hanging from the front door.

'I trust you shall enjoy your stay.' The governor bowed, shaking Iceland's hand one last time. 'This is yours to keep.' He brought out a large embossed key. Iceland took it with an air of reverence, a small finger stroking over the old runes carved into its surface.

'What do they mean, Dan?' As he passed the key over, Denmark could not help but feel that he was being entrusted with a treasure beyond price, something significant tied in amongst Iceland's history. The Viking part of his mind, already stirring in this ancient place, now awoke fully.

'Forged in the name of Odin, for the one whose blood runs through the earth of Island.' he cast a furtive glance about himself, thankful to note that the governor had gone. 'Ice...it's yours. Yours alone.' Denmark pressed the key into Iceland's hand and curled his fingers around it protectively. Suddenly all his previous fears seemed pathetic, in light of this moment. Who was he to forbid Iceland from visiting his own country? _Every nation should have the right to know and love their land._ For the first time, he looked into Iceland's wide, confused eyes, and knew that they were equals.

'Come on,' said Norway softly. Denmark had never been more grateful for his tact. 'It's getting cold, we should go inside.' Together they watched Iceland unlock the door to the house- his house. Norway's hand crept into his, and a wave of affection swept Denmark over with its intensity. _We will endure. And still we rise._

Back in the house in Copenhagen, Iceland had always been treated with the utmost respect, but now he was above even Denmark and Norway in social standings. As their nation, the servants bowed to him first, took orders from him foremost, and followed his every command. It stood as an unspoken rule that nations were treated almost like honourary members of the royal family when in their homeland. And now Iceland was experiencing that firsthand, taking precedence over everybody. Denmark was more than a little relieved to find that he felt only pride. Pride was a fickle friend; it could warp into jealousy and obstinacy within seconds. But for Iceland, for the boy who was discovering his true identity, he could find it in himself to be happy. He said this to Norway in so many words one night, when they sat beside the fire after Iceland had gone to bed. Seeing his little brother happy had softened Norway, and Denmark was thankful for the sudden rise in affection.

'I'm glad we came here.' He was rewarded by Norway shuffling closer to his side. 'This is the happiest I've ever seen him, and he's always happy.'

'Are you?' Denmark mulled over the answer for a long moment. The fire crackled lowly; his thumb moved back and forth in Norway's hair. No other noises dared to encroach upon the peace of the room.

'I am. I truly am.' It occurred to him that nothing was truly destroyed in war- only broken, pieces scattered across a battlefield of mind and body. All he had to do was put them back together. _And I am doing that right here, right now._

They spent those first few days observing the necessary formalities, writing to King Christian to inform him of their safe arrival and sitting through several meetings with the tiny government, during which Iceland scribbled on a piece of parchment and mumbled that being a nation was boring. But this land, so northerly, so steeped in ancient history, evoked in Denmark a longing to relive the past and walk beneath a wild sky once more. So on the fifth morning of their visit, they set out of town and did not stop until the houses were no more than dark little pinpricks in the distance.

'It's still there,' said Norway, voice shaky with rare awe. One hand gestured towards an impossibly old structure- curved wooden beams carpeted with murky moss, runic carvings dulled and eroded by time, yet still redolent of those golden medieval days. 'The tribal leader knew who I was, knew what I was.' He shared a silent, solemn look with Denmark. The few people who knew of nations in those days were aggressive, cursing them as little more than war machines sent to divide and conquer. Denmark slid one hand down the longhall's peeling side. His own memories of this place were patchy at best, raids too small and paltry to celebrate much about. _But now we can make new ones, better ones._ He turned to Iceland, who was unusually taciturn despite his original enthusiasm for this trip.

'What's wrong? Do you want to go back?' But he did not even deign to answer. Iceland stayed exactly where he was, small hands balled into fists and a cold light in his eyes that was disquieting to see. 'Ice?'

'I remember this place.' When he spoke, it was like frost layered with fire; when he spoke, a horrible shiver of dread scuttled down Denmark's spine.

'What do you-'

'I remember the cold. It was so, so cold that night. And the snow-' All of a sudden Iceland clutched at his throat, gasping. Norway was at his side before another word could be said.

'Emil, talk to me,' he begged, eyes flickering nervously to Denmark. 'Tell me what you remember.' At his words, a spell seemed to break, and Iceland was himself again, the chill slipping from his eyes.

'Storebror...' His voice was tiny, an afraid little thing amidst all the howling winds. 'Dan...' Denmark dropped to his knees and cradled Iceland's trembling frame, arms entwining with Norway's, until at last the tremours subsided. Only then did he realise how erratic his heartbeats had become. Never, in all his long centuries upon the earth, had Denmark witnessed something like this. Once again his eyes met Norway's above Iceland's head. A silent agreement passed between them, and they stood, each taking a small hand.

'Want to keep going?' asked Denmark gently. 'We can go home if you'd rather.'

'I want to see everything.' came the quiet but determined reply. So it was decided. They slowed the pace a little, but walked further north, up past sloping green hills and dewy valleys until their breath came out in dragon-like puffs. No matter how cold it became, no matter how strongly the winds blew, Iceland never once uttered a word of complaint. And now they had reached the summit. It seemed to Denmark that there was a music in the air, a faint singing that chimed in his ears like a chorus of angels. For the sky- pure raven's-wing velvet, brushed with cloudy ropes of stars- hovered brightly, gloriously, with a glowing sheet of aquamarine light.

'The _norðrljós_ ,' Norway whispered reverently. His face was rapt with wonder, with shining-eyed glory at the glittering scene. 'The Northern Lights.' In his voice he wore all their pride and hopes and dreams- the north, the ice blood that had carried them to a thousand victories, the roaring fervour of blood and magic that ran through all their veins.

'I want to touch the lights.' Iceland in no way ended the night's allure; his timid, muttered request only added a further touch of sweetness to this ethereal day. Though he knew it was impossible, some whimsical part of Denmark made him lift Iceland onto his shoulders, with a fool's hope that he would get his wish. He thrust one starfish hand into the air. And a tears sprang into Denmark's eyes when Iceland said in a voice that was soft with fatigue and delight:

'I can feel the stars.' Norway slid an arm round his waist, head coming to rest in the crook between neck and shoulder. They stood like that in silence for a long moment- the sky's melody humming around their heads, three of its brightest, most eternal stars completely at home in the beautiful chill. And watched. And waited. And extracted, deservedly, finally, a grain of peace from long years of sorrow.

'Dan. _Dan_.' Denmark's eyes snapped open, even as his feet continued to move. 'Listen.' He pricked up his tired ears, noting how Norway's mouth gaped open in a constant yawn. A feeble squawking noise filled the air.

'It's just a bird, Ice-'

'It might be hurt.' Iceland turned on the full force of his violet eyes, accented with a hopeful little smile. Denmark cursed his own leniency, remembering a time when he would say no to anyone without a care. _But not them. Never them._

'All right, I'll help you look.' He felt a little ridiculous, poking through blades of wet grass in the dark, all for a bird that Iceland might or might not have imagined. But at last the ignominious search came to an end.

'I found it!' Iceland thrust out his cupped hands, and Denmark caught a flash of black and white. 'It's a puffin! Can I keep it?' He glanced at Norway, who seemed too exhausted to care either way.

'I suppose so.' It was more than worth it for the beaming grin that lit up Iceland's face, and the one-armed hug he bestowed upon Denmark. The lights were springing up around him, in small and unexpected ways like this. But Denmark was grateful for every one.

That night could not have been more perfect. Iceland barely made it up the stairs, collapsing onto his bed with the puffin curled between his gentle hands, eyes falling shut within seconds. Norway fared little better. He kicked off his boots, and was too drowsy to protest when Denmark pulled him close. They fell asleep like that, arms loosely linked, rosy with cold evening air and lingering joy. _Everything_ , thought Denmark, before he finally gave in to the warm blanket of darkness. Bliss was only permitted to them for a few short hours. Which was why at the crack of dawn, before the sun had properly risen, Denmark's eyes slid open to the sound of someone making good use of the doorknocker.

'You get it.' mumbled Norway into his pillow.

'You. I was up longer last night.'

'You.'

'I'll bring you breakfast in bed?' He swept a teasing finger down Norway's face. 'And you don't have to get up until tomorrow if you don't want.' The smallest slit of indigo revealed itself as Norway considered his offer.

'Fine,' he said at last, rising with affected lethargy and dousing his face with cold water. 'And shut up.' he added when the doorknocker continued its irksome song. Denmark just managed to force his eyes open to watch Norway leave, keeping them open as sounds began to echo from downstairs. He shivered, damning Iceland's frigid weather for what must have been the thousandth time. Voices floated up the stairs. They were low and unhurried, which in his half-asleep state he took to be a good sign. Norway's footsteps thudded dully into the room.

'Read it.' Something sharp took him in the face. Denmark sat up, kneading his eye with one hand and unfolding the parchment with his other.

'Who's it from?'

'Just read it.' He did not like the deadened beat to Norway's tones, but forced himself to puzzle out the words anyway.

'We are bidden to return to Copenhagen with all due urgency at the bequest of His Grace the king, in light of the fact that-' A cold agony choked off his voice. _It's not true. It can't be true._ His worst fear in this new era of peace; the thing he had warned the king against, time and time again.

The European war- an excuse for old enemies to strike at each other again, under the guise of religious duty. And Christian, devoted Lutheran that he was, had officially entered the unified kingdom of Denmark-Norway into it. On the side of King Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: I'm really, really sorry this is late, writer's block is a big obstacle for me at the moment. But hopefully you'll like it! The next chapters will get back into real history more (though this one still has lots of plot). Thank you so much for all your reviews, they are the best motivator and I love to know what you think of my writing! So keep sending them in 3 :D**

 **Stockholm, May 1625**

It began, as these things so often did, with a meeting. King Gustavus had grown into a well-reasoned and just man, one who saw opportunity in every circumstance that appeared to him. His youthful thirst for an empire had by no means diminished, however. In a strategy that was by no means innovative for the time, yet a new prospect for the region of Scandinavia, he devised plans to expand the tenuous-at-best territories of Sweden- in America. The name was distant and unfamiliar in Finland's mind. His brothers' people had travelled there long ago, leaving behind a short-lived legacy of warring colonies and failed expeditions. But now, with wealth and power, it was entirely feasible that Gustavus could one day rule over a considerable portion of America. _And I intend to help him do it._ For Finland, the decision had been easy. Decades of fighting ate away at a soul, not least against brothers-turned-enemies, and he knew that this was his best chance to start again. Even Sweden came round to the idea quickly enough.

'It'll get us out of this pointless war,' he said when Finland told him, looking happier than he had in weeks. The war in question was indeed of little purpose, merely another chance for the old foes of Europe to gain new bragging rights under the guise of a religious disagreement. Neither of them had taken much of an active part in the battles themselves; now America beckoned in a haze of hope.

The carpet of Stockholm's throne room had been a threadbare rag for as long as Finland could remember. He knelt on its fraying fabric, ever the obedient servant, to await Gustavus' news. The king gestured for his other councillors to leave with a nonchalant flick of the hand, a gesture that he struggled with when newly crowned. That was their cue to rise.

'We have a new ally on our side,' he began, a cryptic smile gracing that sly-eyed face. Instinct tapped at Finland's mind with insidious fingers. _Something is wrong_ , it hissed at him, in the same voice that marked betrayal and distrust. They could number amongst their current allies the rich electorate of Saxony, England and all its rising strength, not to mention the Russian Empire's subdued but assured support. _We need all the help we can get,_ he reminded himself forcefully. Years of failed pacts and unions had done little for Finland's confidence in war treaties, serving only to isolate his country more from its overlords. Sweden nodded, face reserved with polite interest.

'Might I ask who, Your Grace?' Gustavus sat up a little straighter on his throne. _He is enjoying this, and Sweden has walked right into his trap._

'The unified kingdom of Denmark-Norway, no less.' Yet even that came as a shock to Finland. His mouth fell open, arguments and protestations churning into a sole thought of no, no. Sweden was no less aghast- he took a furied step forward, a desperate sorrow in his eyes that Finland faintly recognised, only to be halted by the king's serenely raised hand.

'You shall have your moment of anger,' said Gustavus, having no doubt anticipated the whole scene. 'But allow me to speak first.'

'Of course, Your Grace.' His gaze flickered across to Finland, riddled with wild anxiety. _There is nothing I can do. Once more we are faced with foes hidden within friends, and all I can do is nod and smile._

'Despite their losses over the past hundred years, our Scandinavian companions have managed to maintain an empire of considerable influence and power. King Christian was wise not to enter the war until now.' His ice-grey eyes invited them to challenge the statement. But as they had been saying for years, the king bore his fabled grandfather's name well. 'Yet he is only a man after all, with hopes and desires like the rest of us.' Not me, suggested those glib tones. 'Denmark has long been known as a principal defender of the Lutheran faith, and I suspect Christian did not want to lose the unofficial title that came with it.' All sound arguments; all justifiable and sensible. Gustavus never did anything if he could not provide an reason for it first.

'I ask that we may be exempted from all future relations with- with them for the duration of the war,' said Sweden, words spilling out in a panicked staccato rattle. He knelt before the throne again. 'Your Grace, you must understand. Our history with-'

'Yes, yes. The effects of your Kalmar Union are still being felt in this day and age. I imagine it was not an easy time personally either?' His smile invited a story, though this time Sweden did not indulge it.

'The American expedition,' cut in Finland. Something had frozen within him, trapping with it an insistence that to fight alongside Denmark and Norway would be akin to suicide. 'Forgive me, Your Grace, but it seems more likely that our borders will expand if we look west, rather than to lands that we have tried and failed to conquer in the past.' He waited, pride ringing too loud in his head to kneel. For once Gustavus was not immediately dismissive. He lifted an idle hand to examine the rings glittering there, though his face reflected only deviousness.

'I had hoped that you would lead my troops into the next battle,' the king said at last. 'Alongside the Danish and Norwegian army, of course.' That snapped Sweden's head up soon enough. He rose to the bait like he always did, with a puppy-like eagerness to prove himself in any way possible. _A typical younger brother. Denmark's shadow was ever long and dark, and it will never truly leave him._

'It is a significant opportunity to open up new trade routes and gain more lands, Your Grace,' said Sweden, throwing himself upon Gustavus' indeterminate mercy. 'And negotiations would flow more smoothly in our absence.' Their greatest weakness had been laid bare. All the cards were dealt; what remained was to see how they fell amongst this courtier's game.

'That is true,' the king conceded. 'Though I am reluctant to let my chief commanders leave at this stage of the war.' _The flattery is for Sweden's benefit entirely._ Finland forced a wry smile off his face, trying not to betray that he knew exactly what Gustavus was doing. Not that it mattered- as a colony, he was obliged to fight, should be honoured to put his life in danger for the King of Sweden.

'We can-'

'Go to America.' The tension in Sweden's shoulders lessened visibly. 'You have one year to bring your kingdom a good name, with the express command that I can summon you back at my will.'

'Your Grace-'

'And when you do return, you will lead my forces alongside those of Denmark and Norway.' There was no gentle request for their loyalty, no subtle bribe or otherwise. Just pure, demanded obedience. _And I have never responded well to this cage of lies._ Courts these days were not the cultured assemblies of medieval times, replete with discovery and wonder at the world. Now, the castle they lived in resembled little more than a rat pit. One by one they came, men and women in frippery and finery, grovelling for favours and clawing their way up a ladder that could turn and break with the slightest ill rumour. Only the king was indispensable. Finland thanked every god he had been converted to over the centuries that he too was irreplaceable, as an immortal nation whose existence meant more than society circles. But these days respect was not owed- it had to be won.

'I accept those terms, Your Grace,' said Sweden, sounding as though he had just surrendered in a hard-fought war. Finland stared at his bowed, beaten head- stared at the man who he still loved, despite everything- and saw only an aching desire to be of use. _You are enough,_ he had told Sweden countless times. Yet the message never quite sunk in.

'And I accept them too.'

The day that their ship cast off from the harbour was far from celebratory. A dull grey drizzle had dampened the dockside, so the party that came to see them off were shivering and bedraggled within minutes. King Gustavus at least deigned to show his face. He shook Sweden's hand and patted Finland's shoulder, reminding them of their duties in America.

'The Swedish Empire,' he said, with an odd sort of cheerful urgency. 'That is what we work towards, every day. Do not forget it.' Then they climbed aboard, the anchor was heaved in and ropes cast off, readying the ship for its lengthy voyage. Such trips had been completed in Europe before, yet this would be the first by a Scandinavian country since Viking times. It lent a sort of bittersweet romance to their journey. Something about the fledgling hope of it all, a new horizon that looked beyond current enemies and saw only a golden future. _For the good of Sweden. Always, always for the good of Sweden._ Finland had lived by that mantra since the end of the Kalmar Union, when he discovered his own inferiority in the eyes of their shared monarch. It kept him sane, kept him fighting when he would rather have laid down his sword- and drove a cold barrier between him and Sweden. One that not even time had managed to erode.

 **The North Sea, close to Scotland**

Their route took them from Stockholm to Malmö; across the memory-laden Øresund Sound, past little Norwegian ports and out into the chilled open expanse of the North Sea. Here too the past came back to haunt them. Countless raids had taken place on these steely waters, not to mention ferocious sea battles that were all it took to determine the shift of power back in medieval times. One fight could decide a war then; now, with stronger armies and carefully developed strategies, such a skirmish might be the first of hundreds in the struggle for a crown. Finland was grateful when they circled past the edge of Scotland. _With the power of a name, a bloodline, they forged two kingdoms into one._ James Stuart had ruled both England and Scotland until mere months ago, when his son Charles ascended the throne. And it was through no prowess in war, nor his strength on the battlefield, but the intertwined blood of his ancestors that at last united two warring countries. The Kalmar Union repeated two hundred years on, but with more civility and far less tension. Finland almost wondered what it would have been like if their union went the same way- and stopped when it grew a little too realistic in his mind.

'A clear night,' said Sweden, eyes unmoving from the stars.

'They say the Northern Lights can be seen this far up.' Finland pushed back his hood, letting the tangible cold caress his face with wintery fingers. He would always treasure moments like these: duty ahead of them and duty behind, but inbetween a fleeting freedom, of the open sea and the vast sky. _So alone in this world, yet there is life all around me._ He did not resist when Sweden slid a cautious arm around his waist. It was warm, yes, but warmth of a different kind. The warmth of a good, honourable heart, a rare enough thing in this world of anguish and betrayal. Something squirmed guiltily in Finland's stomach. Even as remorse clawed at him, the sky unfolded like a luminous flower, great curtains of verdant green and jade blue draping across the hard black vault of stars. There was music in those bright folds, a song for the ages that could be understood without words. A beauty of magic and mystery; a dark, glorious beauty.

He invited Sweden to spend the night in his cabin- not through any audible form of communication- merely a silent exchange of gazes and the soft brush of hands.

'Hold me,' he whispered once they were inside. It was easy from there. Finland was reminded of Sweden's painstaking touches, the care he showed and the overwhelming love. _To love is not to be a prisoner._ And he could do that, would do that, even if it took another century to let trust within his heart.

'Suomi.' The word sent a cold jolt down Finland's spine. His language was looked down on in the Swedish court, seen as the tongue of peasants in their cold wasteland of a colony. Those who spoke it did not reveal so, and it was an unofficial rule that any accents were to be muted. Yet here, now, there was only tenderness. He pulled Sweden closer, to trap the little light that had sprung up inside him.

'Ruotsi.' Nothing more needed to be said. Two names, old as the land itself, entwined with an ever-moving history that still made itself known- in this light, this warmth, this shared glow.

'I wish that it could always be like this,' murmured Finland. 'Do you remember, back when we were first free?' Sweden's slow hand in his hair was answer enough. Those days had been dizzying in their glory, so many things gone unsaid over the years spilling out in beautifully romantic streams. _We were still children then, no matter how many battles we fought in or how many kings we served._ But the children of summer always froze in the end. A royal court was no different. Castles were mazes of deceit and betrayal; all Finland dreamed of now was a place he could call home. This very expedition held that opportunity. All he had to do was make it come alive.

'We'll be free again now,' mumbled Sweden drowsily. As the night wore on, dreaming but not sleeping, he spoke of what the future held in low, gently rumbling tones. The house they would build: white-walled and airy, surrounded on all sides by rich green pastures; fields of golden corn in a land where it was always warm, assured safety and comfort for as long as they needed it. And for once Finland's slumber was not tainted by the wraiths of the past.

 **South-east coast of America, June 1625**

After weeks of sailing, after long, monotonous days of constant grey rain, a morning dawned where the sky was clear azure blue. The only clouds to be seen were mere puffs of white, floating lazily in some high corner of the heavens. Even the sea looked welcoming; it lapped with unusual placidity at the side of the boat, a fish darting past every so often. When Finland saw the fish, he knew they were close. Such bright creatures only lived in the warmth. They were of all different colours, dazzling orange and sharp yellow and luminescent green, darting past his view in streaks of colour. The deck grew hot as the day wore on, and Finland went barefoot in an act of half-defiance. This he could manage- the mild weather, the hours of sunlight, the gentle seas and pale skies. Land appeared on the horizon soon after that. It was nothing more than a long, light strip slicing through the skyline, but the very sight of it filled Finland with renewed vigour for what lay ahead. As they drew closer, more of the shoreline revealed itself: sweeping golden sands spread out beneath a languid tide, lush meadows rolling back as far as the eye could see.

But that was nothing compared to when he came into contact with the land itself. Finland let the water wash across his feet, surprised at its warmth. A seabird shrieked overhead, and a light wind rustled the sails of their ship. All else was silent. He stepped closer, Sweden at his side, sensing the hum of the land around him. It was a young, strong sensation, thrumming with nascent power and all the bubbling glory of a country well on the rise. _There is great potential here._ It occurred to him, a thought perhaps long overdue, that America would no doubt have its own human representative. Such a nation would be almost indomitable on the battlefield. Yet somehow, Finland found that such things were no longer important to him. _I have fought in too many wars, have seen too much devastation to ever glory in battle again._ So he took Sweden's hand, and led him into the golden sunrise of this bright haven. Something settled inside Finland. He did not look back once in the direction of home.

The lake on their maps proved to be much further away than expected. Gustavus had borrowed them from the English king Charles, as relics of the dead explorer Walter Raleigh, but it seemed that cartographers then were more interested in appearance than accuracy. Finland squinted down at the yellowed parchment for the sixth time in a minute.

'We should be next to a small river,' he said, ignoring the ache in his shoulders. Every horse was needed for the war, so they had no way of transporting their supplies other than to carry them. 'And then the lake is- east, I think.'

'Did he say how long it would take?' muttered Sweden, whose eyes were bleary from too much sunlight and hours of walking.

'Not as long as this.' The river on the first day, then another day spent following it, and after that they would reach the lake- in theory. Their few existing maps of America were not detailed enough to trust completely.

On and on marched the small party, across fields and plains, ditches and hills, hoping in their too-hot frenzy that the lake would reveal itself on the horizon. _A forest,_ thought Finland, and water. _Almost like home._ It would be warm back in Turku; budding blossoms, soft breezes, oak trees forming a vibrant green canopy to protect from the sun. But Turku was not his city. He could not even call it home, not truly, Sweden's capital of Stockholm fulfilling that title. Finland dared to wonder if Denmark and Norway had arrived there yet, no doubt expecting a chilly reunion. His last memories of them were cloudy and fleeting, forged on a dark battlefield which had witnessed the last true fight of the Kalmar War. _Perhaps this new war will reconcile us._ A whimsical, even foolish notion, but what else could he do? Finland did not like to assume the worst, no matter how disappointed he was when it came to be. Have hope beyond hope, dream the unreal- the alternative would only destroy him in the end.

Three days passed with little progress. This place, so perfect upon appearance, offered no respite from the sun's merciless heat. The grass was thin and rough, chafing against their legs, with ridges and awkward lumps of land hidden in its treacherous length. No one spoke; to do so wasted water, and it hurt to so much as think of water just then. Even the nights were little better- clammy and humid, accompanied by great swarms of mosquitoes that soon turned the pale skin of Finland's arms into an angry red mess. Sweden was hardly faring better. His glasses became steamed up with the heat, so much so that he saw better without them, yet that only rendered map-reading impossible for him. He had always been the best navigator in the days of their youth, and Finland was not inclined to take on the role in his stead. _There must be an end to this torture. Please._ Fighting on the same side as Denmark and Norway almost seemed a better option at this point.

'We'll camp here,' he decided, flopping onto a patch of grass that was greener than the rest. 'If we don't find the lake tomorrow, then we'll have to turn back.' Sweden's eyes met his own for no more than a second. But the accusation was there; to turn back would be to betray Gustavus, to prove that they were fit for nothing more than service. And if there was one thing Finland desired, it was leadership. Autonomy, to be exact.

He lit a fire with shaking hands, craving light more than warmth. Something in its crackling depths pierced the life within Finland, gave him purpose and cleared his head.

'We should never have come here.' Sweden's voice was low and scratchy. For a moment he did not reply, the tainted tang of loyalty still ripe upon his tongue. _We do this for Gustavus._ But what did that matter, when the king's life was a mere fraction of their own, when one day they would look back upon this era as nothing more than a memory?

'Yes.' Finland thought he slept then. Dreams echoed around his sweltering mind, fast-winged and fever-flushed, images of fresh snow against tall trees that only served to torment him. _Wake up. Wake up._ A living hell was bad enough; an imagined heaven was worse. With the very last vestiges of his strength, Finland strained against the nightmare and forced his eyes open. The air was so thick with heat he could have sliced through it. 'Sve,' he whispered. 'Sve, what's that?'

Another light danced just at the edge of his vision.

It was softer, paler, enclosed in a flickering orb that repelled the darkness around it. In Finland's muddled thoughts, that light was their last chance to be saved. He rose on quivering legs; a rush filled his ears, clouded his eyes, but he forced himself to keep moving. _Perhaps the gods have sent it. Perhaps it is a mirage, sent to cheat the mortals down below._ Sheer hope pushed Finland onwards. He fancied that he heard singing, voices wavering and dipping on the wind, a strange melody that wormed its way into his mind with unfamiliar words. And then the light was just before him. Finland put out one hand, wanting to feel those strange slow flames, but fingers he dimly recognised as Sweden's closed around his arm.

'We've found it.' The torch was no more than a torch; its bluish iridescence came from the lake's reflected ripples- the lake, the lake, the haven they had been looking for. Only then did Finland see the face peering up into his own. It was copper-skinned and smooth, with two dark eyes that darted about the two foreigners. A young boy- Iceland's age, maybe. The boy reached out and took his hand, shaking it and repeating something in that strange language of honey and spice. Finland gasped at the prickling sensation that shot through him like wildfire, eyes watering from its strength.

'Another nation,' he choked. 'There's another nation here.' It was not this boy, though his touch had been enough to communicate an immortal presence. Sweden gave a slow nod. He took Finland's other hand, leading the unlikely trio further into the camp. Once the sting had faded, Finland was shocked that he had not noticed this place before. _Power is a fickle force_. Campfires were dotted all around the lakeside, skinned carcasses hanging over them; children shrieked as they chased each other through the waters; men and women in towering feathered headdresses fletched arrows and strung bows. The power here was wild, rushing and roaring- a dizzy freedom that Finland had not felt for years. _This is it_ , he thought. _The start of our year of peace._ Sweden's face betrayed no such joy.

'We need to speak with their leader,' he said, tone businesslike and dour. Always sombre, always dutiful.

'Of course.' As they walked, their new companion having drifted off to join his friends, hundreds of pairs of eyes swivelled in their direction. _But are they welcoming, or something a little more hostile?_ Encounters with people from other countries was easy; they were either allies, therefore to be respected, or enemies to be defeated. Finland and Sweden were here for neither. They wound their way past a final triangular tent and came to a stop. This tent was by far the biggest, with sewn stripes of blue and red. A sole flag flapped in the breeze beside it, displaying a black arrow. An obvious message. _Fight us, and we'll fight back._ They attempted to enter, but a warrior even taller than Sweden blocked their path with his spear. 'Please-' began Finland; he stopped when the spear's point darted just beneath his chin. _Have we walked straight into a trap?_

'Let them in,' said someone in accented English. This new voice, smooth and rich as fine wine, touched a nerve in his heart. The warrior scrutinised them for a lingering moment more- then let his spear drop. Finland ducked through the tent flap, Sweden just behind. 'Please, sit,' said that same honeyed-wine voice. It belonged to a young woman, no older than twenty, who was arrayed elegantly on a woven straw mat. She wore a simple white robe, accented by a sash, down which a waist-length dark braid flowed. Her skin was nut-brown satin, her eyes deep and warm as rich summer earth. And emanating from her, a sensation that Finland now felt singing through his own veins, was the unmistakable mark of a nation.

'You are America.' She tilted her head a little and smiled.

'Not as such. I am not known by that name, not amongst my own people.' Sweden took a breath, folding his hands together before he spoke.

'We are here for-'

'I know why you are here.' Something froze in her smile, though it did not slip for one second. 'There are others as well, men from cold northern countries who come and take the land like it is nothing.'

'We-' Sweden shook his head. 'We are not here to take anything from you. Our king has ordered us to found a- a home for his people.' He was acquitting himself reasonably well, despite being plunged into a meeting of sorts with no prior warning. But America- there was no other name to give her- only continued to smile.

'I understand,' she said softly. 'I sensed your strength the moment you set foot upon this land. You are cold- both of you are cold- because that is all the world has shown you. Old, proud, powerful. You have come just as you were meant to.'

'Meant to?' Finland cut in, tired of all this mystery. 'So you knew-' But before he could finish, the tent flap burst open, and what resembled a tiny whirlwind dashed inside.

'Abequa!' piped up a child's voice. 'Abequa, there's a-' The boy's words died away as he took in the visitors, sky-blue eyes squinting up at their faces. He could have been no more than five years old, with a bright, innocent face and dark blond hair that spilled over into his eyes. His clothes resembled those of the people outside- everything else about him was different.

'And now you see,' said America- Abequa- gently, settling the boy on her lap and smoothing one hand across his head. 'My people are far-flung and fierce, with no bonds to tie them but the land we share. With every invasion, my strength fails a little more.' Only then did Finland see it; the hollowness of her eyes, set in a too-thin face, skin stretched taut over bones and wispy limbs. There was even something defeated about her hair, in how it fell limp and lifeless down her back.

'You want us to take him,' Sweden spoke with a sort of resigned determination. 'That's why you let us enter.' Abequa gave a slight shrug-nod.

'Normally we are long gone before any other nation can reach us,' she explained. 'But you- you were different, I felt it immediately. And that was when I knew.' She shifted the child in her arms a little, as though reluctant to let him go. 'I am not long for this world. But I cannot leave him alone in it. So please, I ask you _náhookos_ to teach him how to be a nation, how to raise an empire of his own. He will be a great country one day, I am sure of it.' There was something forthright and honest about her that Finland admired, a courage to ask for what she wanted and expect it in return.

'What do you think?' he said lowly, in Swedish. Sweden's face was a riot of emotion for those who knew him well. He considered for several long moments, chewing at his thumbnail and doing his best not to look at America.

'Gustavus wants a bigger empire. What better way to give it to him than this?' Finland could not argue with his logic there. It was so sudden, so unexpected, yet he found himself prepared to shoulder such a vast duty. _It has come at last- the chance to prove myself._ If America could be independent, (though he doubted it would remain that way for much longer) then why not him?

'Then we will take him.' said Finland. And for the first time since their meeting, Abequa's smile seemed genuine.

They spent the rest of the night in the camp, sharing freshly cooked meat and a liquor that was so strong, even Finland could not manage more than one sip.

'The stars here are different,' he whispered to Sweden. They had been given their own sleeping mats, in a shaded spot beneath some trees. The stars were indeed different. Back home, they flung themselves anywhere and everywhere in the sky, creating a vast map of silver light. But now there was something almost orderly about them. Constellations appeared, lending the winking lights a more purposeful gleam, and they spread out across their black velvet carpet in neat patterns. Sweden's hand reached for his in the grass.

'What do you think about- about America? About taking him?' Finland tensed a little.

'We are only doing what Gustavus commanded. For Sweden, he always says, and believe in just that.' The amount of truth in that sentence was debatable, but Sweden did not oppose it. He gave Finland's fingers one last squeeze, then rolled over and slept, leaving his companion to ponder the morals of what they had just agreed to. _But perhaps we will have a family of our own, at long last._

'You must go with them, little one.' Abequa was draped in a cloak of crimson-tipped feathers, a matching headdress on her dark hair. But despite her regal attire, the trembling of her lip was easy to see as she attempted to place America's hand in Sweden's.

'But why?' said America, voice shrill. 'I want to stay with you.'

'We're travelling soon,' she replied in half-broken tones. 'You'd get tired. And you want to learn how to be strong, don't you?' He nodded, kneading at one eye with his knuckles. 'I am so sorry,' she said in an undertone to Finland. 'If there had been more time-' Abequa broke off, and let go of America's hand for certain. A faraway look that was not entirely reassuring entered her eyes.

'What is it?'

'Go. Go now.' She pressed a final kiss to America's head. 'They are coming.' Finland had taken no more than two steps forward when he heard it: a rumble lower than thunder, beating into the earth with dull, repetitive thuds. Horses. He grasped Sweden's hand and pulled him forward, away from the noise and back towards the green shroud of the woods.

'Berwald!' An all-too familiar voice stopped them dead in their tracks. Sweden's shoulders were tight in his dark jacket, hand suddenly clammy in Finland's. 'I thought I recognised you!' The three of them turned around- (Finland pushed America behind him surreptitiously) to be faced with none other than England.

'Arthur.'

'So what are you doing here? Conquering, farming, stealing?' Finland would have thought he was joking, but England's voice was too serious for that.

'That's what you're doing, is it?' he returned coolly. England's smile fell.

'Colonising,' he explained. 'Searching for new nations to bring under my protection.' That was a well-known phrase amongst conquering countries; Denmark's excuse for the Kalmar Union had been that he wanted to protect them, as the oldest. _We all know how that ended, don't we?_ 'And I understand that America's representative has been found?' Only then did Finland realise the small hand in his had disappeared. England gave a relaxed grin.

'Wait-'

'I was the first to make colonies here, even if you were the first to find it. So the boy is mine by rights.'

'He belongs to no one,' shot Abequa, her emaciated form painfully thin in the light of day. 'To no one but the land that will be his when I am gone.' Sharp green eyes glinted with interest.

'When you are gone,' repeated England. 'I suspect that will be quite soon, my dear.' He turned back to his European counterparts.

'We are on the same side in this war,' he reasoned, placing a nonchalant hand on his sword hilt. 'Surely you do not wish to fight?' _The king. Think of the king._

'Of course not,' began Finland. 'But-'

'Then leave America to me. You have enough troubles back home, as far as I understand.' He glanced over at Abequa. Her mouth was no longer trembling, but she held her hands in clenched fists, and there was a general air of resignation about the whole sorry scene. _Let him go,_ those soulful eyes seemed to say.

'None more than yours-'

'I am sorry for giving you false hope. Abequa's voice was stiff; she gave a little nod, as though she had been expecting this, then turned and led her warriors back to their camp. The smile that spread across England's face was no doubt meant to be consoling, but he could not help the hint of triumph that crept in at the corners.

'Where is the boy?' He strode forward, hand outstretched. Finland moved as though to stand in front of America- and Sweden moved in the opposite direction. America was left unprotected inbetween them. His stance was proud, if a little shaky, and any tears that might have been expected were nowhere to be seen.

'Who are you?' He spoke in a rasping whisper. England lowered himself to one knee, still smiling.

'Arthur,' he said. 'I'm Arthur.' Something softened in his eyes as he looked at America, and his smile grew more sincere.

'Am I going to live with you?'

'Yes, and I'm sure you'll like it. I have a little brother just like you, you know.'

'Really?' America's voice was a little stronger now. Even as he watched, Finland felt himself growing away from the scene, accepting the loss and moving away. _Everything is taken from us- every chance for strength, growth, even happiness._ And he had tried- he had tried so hard it hurt- to find happiness with Sweden. But no matter how they felt, no matter how tightly love held on, bitter circumstance always came to trip them up. He no longer heard what England was saying. He did not see when England straightened up, taking America's small hand in both of his bigger ones. Finland did not even notice when America gave them a little smile and a wave, a farewell to the family that might have been.

'What do we do now?' His words fell bleakly, emptily.

'One year. One year until they make us go back.' Sweden opened his arms with a sort of helpless acquiescence; Finland did not hesitate for a moment. They stood like that long after everyone else had gone, mourning what was never really theirs, holding onto their peace before it could drift away. _One year_ , thought Finland, and he knew then that the two of them were enough.

 **A/N:** ** _náhookos_** **is an indirect translation of 'northerners' in the Native American language Navajo.**


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: I know, this is nearly two weeks late! I'm so sorry for the wait :( but I decided to take a break from writing last week, because my writer's block was seriously affecting the standard of my work. So hopefully you don't mind a longer wait if the quality is better :D (?) This was one of my favourite chapters to write, particularly the end! Enjoy, and please review 3 3 :)))**

A war, it seemed to Norway, was nothing more than a chessboard. Admittedly, it was somewhat more complicated than that- shifting alliances, land and circumstance- but the overall concept remained the same. Strategy as the best weapon, and an non-negociable ending. _And I have always been good at chess._ He knew which pieces to move, had an uncanny instinct for manoeuvres that seemed otherwise possible. The mind played a large part in games such as these; the mind was nothing without an army to back up its ideas. That was how Norway and Denmark, no matter how they were unified on paper, would always be unstoppable. _Who would have thought fire and ice twined so well?_ With his sharpness and Denmark's brutality, the world would be theirs. Or so it was supposed to be. Their empire was no more, strong only by King Christian's position as figurehead of the Lutheran cause, an empty shell of power. Which was why Norway's sole aim soon became to maintain a facade that had not been true since the Viking times. It was all he could think of during meetings now. _Make them believe it, make them see something dead and gone, use what little magic you have left._ Demons crowded in on his mind: England, their uncertain ally, with his dark smirks and too-fast hands; Denmark, whose love of control manifested itself in newer, bleaker ways; and of course the ever-expanding shadow of Sweden and Finland. This was their one chance, the year in which they had to prove themselves. And they were failing. He felt it in his bones; in the weary, time-battered recesses of those ancient bones.

Much of that time was spent soothing Denmark's anxieties, as Norway had expected. He did it almost idly, speaking words of comfort that flowed too easily from his mouth. But every attempt was futile. Denmark's initial reaction was one of anger; now, given time to ponder upon all that was crumbling around him, he emanated a bitter nostalgia that was unnerving to witness. Once Norway would have tried to pull him back from the dark edges of his mind. _Those edges are sharp and alien, yet he has come to know them well. I would be wasting my strength._ So he stood by, and watched, and let the final dregs of his hope drain away. For there was work to do. Every meeting presented a new challenge, and Norway often found himself at the head of negotiations these days, discussing where troops should be deployed and issuing orders of his own. A younger man, a younger him, might have gloried in command. _Command is nothing more than a snake in king's clothes._ It seemed that Denmark had come to learn that lesson as well. His every plan was sly and subtle, nothing like the excited rages of days gone by, and even the king unconsciously granted the nudges for favour thrown his way. Still fire- still an inferno beneath the surface- but tempered, strengthened.

'You're obedient these days,' noted Norway, brushing back a stray lock of Denmark's hair as they sat in front of the fire. 'I have to say it suits you.' There was no reply for a long moment. Their burning passion had soothed to a quieter, steadier flame in these past years, an assurance of _together_ without words that Norway felt absurdly grateful for. Though there would always be that knife-edge connection beneath the surface.

'Obedience in observation can be useful,' said Denmark with a wry grin. 'A lesson I learnt recently, you may be surprised to hear.' From Sweden, he knew. No one was more dutiful than their dear departed brother. Norway allowed himself a moment of affected surprise, then settled back into icy repose.

'You, learning? Of course I'm surprised.'

'Good. It's what I aim to do.' _Oh, my love, your face is franker than an open book. And I have devoured every page right under your nose._ He smiled, letting Denmark's arms encircle his waist and those treacherous lips find his. Two could play at this game- though it was not much of a contest when Norway was involved.

Rosenborg Castle was the king's favourite residence, completed a mere year ago. It stood upon a grassy jut of land in the outskirts of Copenhagen, with lofty, sea-green-blue carven turrets and marbled red walls that glowed ruddily in the morning sun. Fitting then, that their first isolated meeting with Christian should be in this building of culture and leisure. He received them beneath the Danish coat of arms in the Long Hall- every piece of Germanic ancestry was displayed in meticulous detail alongside the leaping blue lions of Denmark. Whether that was deliberate or otherwise remained a mystery to Norway. _It will endear us somewhat to our Lutheran cousins, though._

'Your Grace,' Denmark greeted their liege with new-found brusqueness. 'I trust that you are well?' Christian waved away the niceties as he always did, displaying his customary scorn for such things. The three of them continued on to the council chamber and took their seats; Norway did not fail to notice the quartet of guards stationed at every door, nor that shutters masked all the windows to shroud the palace in grey light.

'I intend for you to each lead a legion into the Holy Roman Empire,' said the king. His finger hovered over a map, as ever, the age-old symbol of a seasoned plotter. 'We will ride for the Holy Roman Empire within a month, provided that the British mercenaries arrive and our Swedish allies hold to their oath.' _And we all know a thing or two about oath-breaking, don't we?_ Norway willed his smile to stay away. But there was a terminal air to this meeting, a sense of wrapping up the edges of plans that diverted his mind to other, more personal matters. He had doubted for a long time that their kingdom could survive another war. France, Spain, England, Scotland, all were tied to Denmark and Norway in some way, ways that bound legally as well as personally. There was no reason for any sort of betrayal. And while Christian remained figurehead of the Lutheran faith, he saw little threat from Rome and the Pope. Yet unions broke as easily as smoke trailing on the wind, Norway knew from bitter experience. This war was a prime opportunity for just that.

'When should we expect the mercenaries?' he asked, more to divert his attention away from such negative thoughts than anything else.

'No longer than two weeks.' The king's brow was furrowed in concentration. 'My nephew Charles is King of England and Scotland; he knows the importance of this alliance.' He stood abruptly, rolling up the maps. 'We shall discuss more when the Swedish arrive.' Something about the briskness of it all nudged at Norway's mind. There was some hidden pretext to this meeting, he felt, some problem that Christian had decided was important. But surely the king trusted them? He had been on the throne for nearly thirty years, all of them with staunch support from his two nation representatives. _I see enemies in every shadow, see betrayal at the slightest hint._ Something in Norway's face must have given away his troubles, for Denmark's hand closed around his under the table with touching tenderness. Trust me, it seemed to say. He could do that. He could still trust. Norway gave his hand a quick squeeze and returned it to the other behind his back.

'Soon, then, Your Grace.' Christian nodded and gestured for them to leave. Yet even as Norway dared to believe they would be spared further scheming, the king's steel-hinted voice called out after him.

'One more thing. The boy- Emil, he is called?' Norway spun about, a no sharp and ready upon his lips. 'How old is he now? Relatively speaking, of course.' He had to curb a dark glare at the king's derisive tones.

'Ten, perhaps. Still a boy.'

'And he can ride a horse, swing a sword?' Denmark cast him a nervous glance. His expression was plain as day, as usual, but for once Norway could not bring himself to care.

'Taught him myself,' he mumbled, smoothing down his hair as he always did when anxious. 'In the early fifteenth century, I believe.' That quirked Christian's lips in the smallest of smiles.

'Then he'll ride with us to the Holy Roman Empire.'

'Your Grace-' Norway strode forward, hands clenched into tight fists to keep them from trembling. 'He's just a child. He's never fought properly before, never been on a battlefield or in an army camp. It's too soon.' The gaze that swept over him was iron-eyed and utterly merciless.

'Young boys are sent off to fight as squires in their tenth year. See it as an honour, a privilege that he should witness a war as vital as this one.'

'But you-' _You're turning him into a weapon,_ Norway wanted to shout. Just what he had always dreaded being- and just what he had become. _He's Emil, Iceland, not your sword to swing. My brother._

'Lukas.' Denmark's voice was a low comfort in his ear. 'We can protect him. He'll be with us wherever he goes. And if the worst happens-'

'I saw a man out in France like you,' interrupted Christian, all traces of his sardonic wit gone. 'Blonde hair, big blue eyes, pretty as a girl, but he fought like a demon. I saw him stabbed most days, wounds that would fell any other soldier. And he was there every morning all the same, out on the front lines as though nothing had happened the day before. Why should Emil be any different?' And that was the bitter truth of it- he was no different, not at all. Mortal wounds were never permanent for nations, a mere few days or hours for blood to replenish and wounds to knit themselves back together.

'Because he should not have to fight,' said Norway quietly, surprised at his own voice. 'We do so because we are beholden by blood, by our union. A union that Iceland was never part of. He is not your sword to wield, not now.'

'Oh, but he is. And he'll ride with us when we leave. Understood?' The king left before Norway could answer, his metal-tipped boots ringing out across the flagstones in a dull, thudding death knell. He wanted reassurance; he wanted comfort, wanted safety and security. Not responsiblity that fell from his hands a little more each day.

'This was always going to happen,' said Denmark, voice flat. 'There is nothing we can do.' Nothing. _Nothing_. The word was like a dulling dagger through his mind, a crumbling of all they had ever fought and bled for.

'There is always something.' Norway's lips brushed together numbly, coldly.

'But you said that time would pass, you said it yourself. Maybe-' Denmark dragged a tense hand across his face. 'Maybe I learnt to let go. I thought you would have as well.' _Never_ , he thought. _Never_.

Sweden and Finland arrived a mere two days later. Everyone had heard of their voyage to America, of the golden-green land where they built a mansion and grew rich off crops in just one year. Norway was disinclined to believe every rumour he heard, of course. But there was something illustrious, something worthy about their trip that set a low jealousy tingling down his spine as it had not done for over a hundred years. They came at dawn. Line upon line of cavalry, ornamented with silver armour that shone fiercely in the sunrise's ruddy glow; the infantry behind in embossed tabards, carrying tall spears and pikes; and at the front, three unmistakable figures. King Gustavus was arrayed all in blue and gold, from the regal sweep of his greatcloak to the gleaming tips of his spurs. A circlet set with tiny winking jewels enclosed his helmet. He spares no ceremony. _Though I doubt Christian's display will be half so flamboyant._ The current king preferred to flaunt his wealth with bloodied swords and treasure troves, not fancy embroidered tunics and tiaras.

The two monarchs exchanged a terse greeting in Rosenborg's entry hall, which was rendered almost unrecognisable by the half-concealed piles of weaponry lining the floors and the agitated rap of soldier's boots on marble floors.

'My lord.' Gustavus was first to speak.

'My lord.' Christian replied with more steel and less silver. He was accompanied by Denmark and Norway, who stood several feet away, arrayed in full military regalia with swords at their sides. Sweden and Finland were no less intimidating. Their armour was covered in the lacy filigree that most European armies seemed to favour now, though its plate was firm enough. Behind their thick lenses, Sweden's eyes skirted to the rafters, the walls; over the royal crest and its ornaments, over every piece of wealth in front of him, down to the shine on the carven floors. This castle was not familiar to him. _But what is he searching for? An escape route, a trap, or something worse?_ Norway had given up delving into his brother's tangled mess of a mind long ago. He sensed Denmark's irritation at his side, and felt thankful that Iceland had not come with them for once.

'I understand there are to be six main battalions?' said King Gustavus, comfortable in his role as visiting king. As an inferior as well, though Norway could not be sure how many of them knew that.

'That is correct. We shall both lead one, our commanders the rest.' Christian unrolled the largest of his beloved maps. It was an inked affair of black-and-red, centred upon Denmark and its southern neighbours. Norway did not fail to note the haphazard hand with which Sweden's coastline had been sketched. 'I thought we might muster our main forces at Schleswig,' he continued. Gustavus nodded.

'A sound idea,' he said. 'I understand we have the full support of the people there?'

'The House of Oldenburg have held the Duchy of Schleswig for several centuries now,' came the rattled reply. 'Emperor Ferdinand's fingers do not reach that far, I assure you.' _There are always spies, always scouts._ But Norway pushed away that thought; he had time enough to dwell on such things later.

'Your Grace, we should march on Lübeck at once,' put in Denmark, very determinedly not looking at Sweden. 'That rules out the Hanseatic League's support, whether for us or the Catholics.' He said 'Catholics' with such malice that it was almost tangible. Only Norway knew that he- both of them- still carried Thor's symbol of a hammer into every battle.

'Lübeck is an obvious city to target,' pointed out Gustavus, dropping Denmark's face into a scowl. 'I suggest we camp along the Elbe River outside Hamburg- there are supplies, escape if we need it, a route for reinforcements to arrive. The perfect camp.'

'Hamburg,' repeated Christian in a low mutter. His voice was almost impressed, though he never once let his apathetic mask slip. 'Too obvious-' Denmark grinned again- '-but so is everywhere.' His grin slipped immediately. 'We have the numbers. We have enough to go into this without fear of defence.' His thundercloud eyes locked with Gustavus', a stare that many quailed from. To his credit, the Swedish king did not break away until at least a minute had passed. 'So I propose that we follow your plan, my lord.'

'And to fall back upon, we have what?' The sound of Finland's voice was iron and ice all at once in Norway's chest: a cold, tight clenching that shortened his breath and clouded his eyes. Sweden was easy to hate. Sweden had betrayed them knowingly, willingly. But Finland... _why couldn't I just let go? Let go, I told Denmark, let go or things will never be better._ Norway could not deny that it was good to see him again. And he could not say that it filled him with joy either.

'I assume His Grace will be accommodating,' said Gustavus with a thin-lipped smile. 'We are allies, after all.' The threat in his words was almost too obvious. Christian dipped his head in the smallest of nods.

'Copenhagen will never fall. Not whilst I am king.' _And so the threat is rebuffed_ , Norway could not help thinking. He glanced outside; the sky was clear, azure, unblemished Swedish blue.

'Then that is all?' Denmark stood, disregarding propriety in his usual blithe manner. No doubt it was crystal clear in his mind; six troops, one army, a reunion of brothers that would never repair the old wounds of time.

'I suppose so,' said Christian. He shot a pointed look at Norway. 'The boy will travel with you when we leave.' A scrap thrown to his second-favourite hound, but a scrap nonetheless. Norway found himself shamefully grateful, and a little embarrassed when he recalled his agitated display earlier that week.

'Thank you, Your Grace.' The words were like honey in his mouth- thick, cloying. And like honey, they were dangerously sweet.

Iceland was, of course, excited beyond belief when he heard the news.

'Does this mean I get to fight, _storebror?_ ' he asked, leaping about with all the ebullience of a puppy.

'Perhaps.' Norway kept his tone cautious. 'You'll have to stay close to me and Dan, and you can't run off to-' He broke off. Iceland was not yet aware of their alliance with Sweden and Finland, namely due to Norway's selfish fear that he would look back on Kalmar as a good thing if reunited with them. 'Promise?'

'I promise,' said Iceland distractedly as he pulled open various drawers and cupboards, at last pulling out a battered old dagger. 'Sví helped me make this, do you remember?' He did indeed. Gathering the wood, chopping and whittling it, carving the handle and securing a blunt iron blade to the top. A child's weapon; a symbol of summers long since past. _Budding spring, golden summer, fiery autumn, deadened winter._ He had known each one, had lingered over days of warm and cold alike. _And so now the night falls._

In the end he took to it like a fish would to water. The sparring each morning, the shift and chink of polished armour, the campfires with their hazy smoke; there was not a thing about it that Iceland did not love. He was first to rise each morning and last to sleep, always wriggling from his little camp bed in Denmark and Norway's tent to practice sword skills or simply to watch the sunset. Their first minor skirmish did nothing to shake that passion. It was a short battle, easily won, with no purpose but to hinder their progress into the Holy Roman Empire and buy more time for the enemy. Further and further the Scandinavian army travelled, past Schleswig and Hamburg, down into the very heartlands of Prussia. They reached Dessau after almost six months on the road. Norway shifted his sword in its scabbard and raised a hand to shield his eyes, peering out across the horizon. This was to be their first major battle, an organised meeting of troops in which there could be only one victor.

'How many?' he muttered to the scout at his side.

'Twenty thousand at least,' panted the man, red-faced from running. 'Perhaps three-fifths cavalry, the rest armed with pikes and swords.' Norway gave a brisk nod.

'Tell the king.' The scout bowed and ran off again. _Twenty thousand._ They numbered twelve thousand if he was being generous, closer to eleven if not. For the hundredth time, Norway cursed Gustavus' decision to remain up by the Elbe. Now the odds facing them were impossibly bad. _And we will have to fight all the same._ But what could he do, except obey? What the king ordered must be followed, his word must never be doubted, never questioned, all sentiments that Norway had taken little notice of in the past. Only now did they apply- only when death, and worse, disgrace, stared him in the eyes.

'We're going to fight now?' Iceland's voice was a dash of cold water across his face.

'We are.'

'They have a lot of soldiers,' observed Iceland, eyes staring out seriously across the assembled enemy lines. 'Do you think we'll win?'

'Perhaps not this time, _lillebror_.' He could not bring himself to speak anything more than the truth.

'Then why should we fight at all?' That- not the thought of their impending defeat, the shame it would bring- that was what choked off Norway's breath in his throat.

'Because the king has ordered us to,' he whispered through chilled lips. 'We must always obey the king, no matter what.' His brother considered that, pale head tipped to one side and lips parted in thought, his gaze flickering from Norway to the battlefield and back again.

'What if he's wrong?' _Moral lessons from a ten-year-old. Just what I need before we ride into certain loss._

'Then you must do as he says, Island. Loyalty is worth far more than simply being right.'

'Sví and Fin left, even though the king didn't tell them to. Does that make them disloyal?' In all his centuries, never had Norway met someone with such iron will and duty as Sweden. He was trustworthy, reliable, steadfast, a shoulder to lean upon in hard times. _And he left us._

'Yes.' He lied to his brother with no remorse, no second thoughts. _Because now I can never trust again._

They lost the Battle of Dressau Bridge in the end, just as he had known they would. King Christian was furious, Denmark merely bewildered.

'It's not right, Nor,' was the first thing he said when they were reunited on the other side. _We shouldn't have lost_ , would have been acceptable, obvious. But Denmark was never obvious when Norway expected it of him. He had never been one to question morals, hurling himself into battle without so much as a second thought to its cause. So a statement like this one fell ominously upon Norway's ears.

'I know it's not right. None of this is right.' That signalled the discussion over. But later, lying awake in the tent, still shaken and fatigued from the fight, Norway found time to think the whole thing over again. Being a courtier had always seemed like a game to him. He knew which bribes to make, where to plant rumours and watch them take root, where to encourage favour and garner sympathy. None of it was necessary- again, a game of silken vines and perfumed lies. Not once had it occurred to him that it was _wrong_. Battle should have been completely different, yet it was not; Norway saw the similarities too easily, made comparisons where there would otherwise have been none. An overactive imagination, maybe. Or the weight of a thousand years spent circling the throne- never sitting, always serving, never dreaming that the golden shroud of royalty might drape across him one day.

Twin winds of loyalty and doubt swept him onto a new stage: Lutter, a principal stronghold in the rising kingdom of Prussia. Norway hacked and stabbed, slashed and shielded, going through the familiar motions of a fight with graceful ease. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Denmark, a whirl of bloodied red and burnished crimson. Something softened within him. Apart they were fierce, furious, sharp-edged entities of pure power; together they forged into a sole being of ice and fire. Where Norway parried Denmark slashed, where Denmark faltered there was always Norway to back up his sword. And now Iceland fought beside them as well. Most soldiers would hesitate to strike out at a child, especially one who carried such innocence in the amethyst orbs of his eyes. That provided a perfect opportunity for Iceland's little dagger to slip in and out again. _My brother, a killer_. Norway remembered his first time, hundreds of years ago. An Englishman, twice his size and three times as stupid. _I felt nothing when the light faded from his eyes. Only icy pride, ragged joy._ He supposed it ran in the family. Iceland had displayed nothing but courage that day, and all the weaving Viking wildness of his brothers.

All of this considered, Norway's shock when a cry of 'Retreat!' flared up was understandable. He lowered his blade- still on the defensive, still watchful- but a cold finger pressed itself to the nape of his neck.

'What's going on?' he said lowly. Denmark shrugged. The battle continued around them, men falling wherever Norway looked, blood darting across the pale morning to stain it sinful scarlet.

'Retreat! Retreat by order of the king!' Iceland raised a tremulous hand, sliding his dagger into its tiny sheath.

'We should go,' he said in a small voice. 'You said we had to obey, Noregur.'

'Not-' Norway broke off, the words evading his tongue. There was no simple way to describe this- truly, he did not know what it was himself. _Only that we never stand down. We never run._

'Norway.' The staccato rumble of hooves muffled Denmark's voice, though the resignation in his eyes was plain enough. 'Norway, we need to leave. Now.'

'We can't!' He spun about in response, reentering the fray and taking down two German soldiers in quick succession. _Fight, fight,_ was the song coursing through his blood, purest of mantras, a drumbeat that he would always follow, the rhythm of all he had ever known. The hoofbeats grew louder, clearer. Norway continued to carve out his path through the throng.

' _Norway!_ ' Denmark's hand closed upon his arm: and with its warm pressure, it was as though a mask lifted from his eyes. Prussia's black eagle was everywhere, high and proud upon its banners of white; Danes in red livery flung down their swords and ran, accompanied by Norwegians in blue, and it seemed to Norway that some great bird of prey was soaring overhead, screeching sweet murder-

'Run!' Denmark's hand fell into his own, he scooped up Iceland in one arm, and then they were running, running as they never had before, far from battle and blood, so shameful that Norway could not even justify the tears blurring his sight.

' _Aufgeben!_ ' snapped a harsh voice from behind them. But there was laughter in those rough cadences as well, a bitter love for warfare that Norway subconsciously recognised. He did not have to speak German to know what the word meant. _Surrender_ had a certain dark cast to it that surpassed mere language. They entered Lutter itself, racing down empty streets that should have been barricaded long ago.

' _Nordländer_ ,' hissed that same voice of smoke and shadow. 'You have lost. Turn and face your conqueror.' _Keep walking, keep walking,_ he thought, clutching Denmark's hand so tightly it hurt. The garrison was just there, through those tall wooden doors, their last safe point before the world turned to a wasteland full of enemies.

A whip's whistling crack pierced the air.

Norway spun about in childish reflex, mouth falling open in a combination of fear and fury- and then he stopped. Their pursuer was a tall man, garbed in silver steel armour that absorbed the sun's warm rays and sent them rippling across the polished plate in waves of blinding light. His hair was snow-pale, paler than even Iceland's, a jarring contrast to his glaringly red eyes. _The devil himself,_ thought Norway, devoted pagan though he still was. The man smiled. It would have seemed sincere, were it not for the cruel lines edging his mouth.

'Sorry about the whip-' It sprawled from his hand like a slender black snake, thin and sharp and evil- '-but you just wouldn't listen. So I had to resort to other measures. That being violence, obviously.'

'We will give you what you want, Prussian, if you will allow us to return to our king. You have your victory- we do not wish to be a part of it.' Denmark spoke strongly but solemnly. _Once he would have slaughtered anyone who dared threaten us, and laughed over their death throes. That boy is dead now._ Prussia- it had to be Prussia- gave a soft chuckle, shaking his head.

'Strange, that us Lutherans should find ourselves on opposite sides of this war. You even have a few of my northern duchies, though I'll be wanting those back soon enough. But enough talk.' He drew his sword, unbloodied as of yet, and directed its perilous length towards Iceland. 'My allegiance lies with the Holy Roman Empire. And Emperor Ferdinand has ordered me to take what I will from you, something to teach my distant cousin Christian a lesson.' Those emberlike eyes narrowed. 'Something precious.'

'You mean-' A black haze cascaded upon Norway's vision, obscuring everything but his target.

'Just a little prize.' Prussia brushed a lock of hair from Iceland's brow with his sword; it left a thin crimson line in its wake. Iceland did not even so much as whimper. He stared up at Prussia, fists clenched in defiance, ignoring the blood that was trickling slowly down his face. 'No one,' began Norway, the fight to keep his tones level very real. ' _No one_ touches him. Do you understand?' He could almost feel Prussia's lip splitting beneath his furious fist, could almost taste bloody revenge upon his tongue.

'I believe it is you who does not understand, my friend.'

'Don't call me-'

'Oh, but dear _friend_ , we all must have our prizes in war. And the boy is mine.' Prussia extended a black-gloved hand. 'Give him to me, and spare yourselves further trouble.' Two things happened in that moment- Denmark, for whom to retreat must have been the most humiliating experience of his life, turned around with Iceland still in his arms and entered the garrison; Norway drew a long-handled throwing knife from his boot, rueing the decision to leave his sword behind. 'So you intend to fight. A foolish decision, but brave, I must admit.' _I assume bravery is all you value,_ he thought, and leapt forward. His knife buried itself in Prussia's horse up to the hilt. It bucked and whinnied, reeling about in pain, thrashing about so much that the rider was forced to dismount. 'Very well,' seethed Prussia, smile wiped away completely. 'We shall fight.' Someone had told Norway once, long ago, that it was never a good idea to engage in speech during a duel. He adopted that philosophy now, closing his ears to all but the wind and his blade, bringing the attack to Prussia before he knew what was happening. Long and swift they fought, ducking away from each other's steel, jabbing and cutting where they could, getting in enough contact that tiny weeping wells of blood opened up in their clothes.

'Retreat!' Again that awful cry trembled through the air, but Norway forced himself to ignore it. _Not now, not ever, not whilst I still draw breath._ An empire was a strange thing, grown from the buds and cuttings of lesser kingdoms, expanded by patient rulers and great kings. They sprawled over entire countries, replacing names, customs, languages, dusting everything in gold and forgetting that it could turn to dust in the blink of an eye. _Which is why we all must fall._ But Norway had no desire to be the downfall of the Holy Roman Empire. It struck him as contortedly ironic that one fight, _this_ fight, between a mere two people, could decide the fate of entire civilisations.

'What do you fight for, _nördlichen?_ ' What indeed? What could he, immortal and forever young, ever need in this world of misery and pain? Prussia was only trying to distract him; it had worked, bizarrely. _For my country. For Norway, so I might keep my dream alive for one more day._

'The sacrifice.' It was stupidly, blatantly clear. He owed his existence to the rivers and the mountains and the forests. Not to any gilt-draped king, nor tarnished legacies. _And now I must give something back._

So did his knife fall to the ground; so did his eyes slide shut, memories of summer arife in his mind; so did Prussia's sword reave the air open like it would a pile of sand- and the blood poured from his broken body, returning to the earth as it was always meant to.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: I'm so so sorry this is late! School is just really busy at the moment :( but I will try to update regularly. Thank you for all the follows, favourites and reviews- please keep them coming and let me know what you think!**

When the news arrived from Lutter, borne by a sodden Danish messenger with blood streaking his face and a dent in his breastplate, Sweden knew what had happened at once. North and South never mixed well; to be involved in this European war, with the so very southern Holy Roman Empire a central part, was to ride with thousands of lives on a knife edge. And theirs had fallen over the wrong side. He saw soon enough what King Gustavus' intentions were. Waiting here in Hamburg spared them from the shame of defeat, and all the weight of damaged reputations that came with it, yet it provided Denmark's Christian with a perfectly placed ally should he prevail in battle. Which he had not, to the knowledge of just about everybody in the Swedish camp that day. Now Sweden stalked through Hamburg's town square, ignoring the unsavoury looks thrown his way by German farmers. Finland awaited him at the edge of the bustling market. His delight at the prospect of leadership was unbounded; Sweden hated to break this piece of sorry news to him.

'A good day for negotiations,' he muttered by way of greeting. It certainly was. The sky was fine and unblemished, whipped by piercing winds that surrounded the city in a disconcerting air of haste. All the better for hurrying war talks along.

'Indeed.' Finland stepped on at a leisurely pace, his face bright and untroubled, with no hint as to the difficult topic they were yet to face. All of it- the sun, the warmth, his smile- all of it overwhelmed Sweden in a rush of tangled joy and stabbing remorse.

'They are saying that Christian means to retreat to Hamburg,' he began. 'He has fought two battles and lost them both, and we are his closest allies.'

'Then we will stand by him and his kingdom, as we have pledged to.' Something in Finland's voice edged on the mocking, a suggestion perhaps that loyalty was not so important these days. Sweden drew in a sharp breath. The words were there, on the tip of his tongue, but they refused to be released. _He knows. By all the gods, he knows, and he is letting me tie myself in a knot over it._

'I hear Christian means to retreat back to Denmark and reconsider his position from a safer point.'

'The king told you this? I hear that he also means to retreat, in a show of solidarity for newfound friends.' A chill crept up into his mind; he forced it away, curbing memories of old betrayal and present distrust. Sweden gave a sudden scowl.

'And just this morning, Denmark turned up at the front door and begged my forgiveness for Kalmar.'

'Really?'

'No, not really.' He came to a standstill in the road, arms crossed and face set in a deep glower. 'Gustavus never does anything for solidarity if he can help it. He is cunning, resourceful- and he does not trust easily.' _Understand_ , he implored Finland silently. _Do not make me say it._

'He only stays with Christian when it benefits him; everyone knows that, most like even Christian himself.'

'Then why are we still in Hamburg?' Sweden flung out an arm in exasperation, gesturing at their uncertain refuge. 'Christian is weak now, too weak to make much difference in the war.'

'Because this isn't about who has the strongest army, or who can gather the most plunder.' Finland's voice cut through his clouded thoughts like a dash of icy water. 'What do people think when they look at Denmark, at all its history? They see a terrifying past and a new Lutheran legacy to back it up- those are what Gustavus stays for, not for any aid Christian might lend him upon the battlefield.'

'You will not be able to lead your troop unless we can convince Gustavus to stay here,' said Sweden. It was a low blow, and they both knew it. The corners of Finland's mouth twitched, and once again a black mirth could be seen in the lines of his smile.

'It is good that you value my martial prowess so much,' he said mildly. 'But Berwald- this was never about honour, or valour, or even glory.

'Then what?' _Tell me, Tino. Let me hear it from those cracked lips, see that blackened soul creep through._

'A facade. Maintaining one, to be exact. We must show loyalty, though it will be hard for hearts as tainted as ours.' He smiled truly then. No, not truly- bitter, thin, a reminder of just how much the centuries had stripped away. Sweden put out a hand. _Come to me,_ it said, _come and we can be safe again._ Still, it was no surprise when Finland did not take it.

He did not like this city. Once Hanseatic, now imperial, every part of its history was another thorn in the side of the Swedish Empire, a cluster of buildings held together by their own tenacity and nothing more. No lords. No princes. Only the Holy Roman Empire as its overlord, with far too much autonomy for a kingdom as old as he was. Gustavus had apprehended a fine merchant house upon his arrival, settling his makeshift court there and housing the rest of the garrison in its numerous outhouses. It was in this modern mansion that they met, two nations and their steel-and-silver king.

'I understand we are to retreat with His Grace to Schleswig, and from there to Copenhagen.' Finland's voice was cold, impeccably polite. He wore the pale blue plate armour that was to have been first used in this very war.

'That is correct,' said the king. 'We are allied to Denmark-Norway, and for this war we shall stand by them.' _For this war._ The words behind the words were easy enough to read. _The alliance rests upon our future, and what we will make of it._

'Your Grace, I fear that Christian means to withdraw from the fray and rest his forces, with little chance of him rejoining it. Which leaves us stranded, caught up in an alliance that could prove trapping-'

'I know what this alliance means.' Gustavus was still a young man, yet there was something ancient in his face just then, replete with regret. His sharp eyes snared Sweden in a chilly gaze. 'But our power is precarious. I took a risk, against all advice- yes, yours too- and it has not paid off.' He swept a hand across the map, scattering the red-painted flags that represented Denmark and Norway. _My brothers brought low at last_. He felt nothing at the sight.

'Then what-'

'The kingdom of Denmark still holds enough prestige to lend us strength, imagined or otherwise. A strength in its religion, certainly, and in that their king has ruled ably for thirty years now. Such a kingdom can weather the occasional loss.' Finland took a deep breath, meeting Sweden's eyes for the briefest of seconds.

'And what if their strength fails?' he said, playing the only card they had left.

'Then we will still have shown our loyalty,' returned the king. 'March north, and we have at least one ally. Stay here, and we show ourselves to be distrustful- and vulnerable. No, my friend, this is the only option.' He gave Finland a nod that was oddly sympathetic.

'An option that we do not have to take at all-'

'We shall take it,' cut across Sweden, tired of all this unrest and disagreement. 'Your Grace. The people stand behind you, as they always have done.' Gustavus smiled wryly.

'Let us hope it remains that way.'

The result was three days of waiting, three days in which Sweden's nails were reduced to bitten shreds and Finland only grew harsher. Though his anger was a contained force. He channelled it through the sweat and blood of the training yard, as ever, slashing and swiping and shooting until exhaustion overruled fury. _Suomi_ , Sweden called him when they were alone, hoping to see the lightness of spirit he had once known and loved. It only served to fuel the inferno in Finland's eyes. _Love, but love of the wrong thing. Love of revenge and freedom._ Which were so very right, as much a part of life as to breathe was- but not here, not in a court where all that the king demanded was obedience.

'Riders! Riders at the gates!' A herald's booming voice dashed away his reverie. Sweden's traitorous feet carried him to the window, to a sight he had hoped never to see again. King Christian led the column. It was a mess of an army, knights mixed amongst their infantry inferiors, with too few men to set a proper structure. He glanced once again at the king; Christian rode alone, his guards some way behind and with no other companion. _Odd. He was always one to favour his nations, no matter the circumstances of their arrival._ Even Norway's pale head, which should have been obvious in the crowd, was nowhere to be seen. A low fear stirred within him. It was swamped straight away with a wall of apathy- _good, good, I do not need to care anymore._ But something heart-rending and entirely unwelcome stabbed into Sweden as he tore his eyes away from the window.

'Walk with me,' he offered awkwardly, not quite looking at Finland's face. The silence that followed was weighted with far too much left unsaid.

'I intend to stay and greet our guests,' said Finland. 'If we are to do this, Ruotsi, then we shall do it the proper way. You cannot hide forever.' _No, but I can hide now. If I run from fear for long enough, perhaps it will stop chasing me._

'Today...this is not the day that things change, Tino.' He swallowed, coughed, fiddled with the buttons of his shirt cuffs. 'You have always been strong in these times- please, for me. Lie. Say I am indisposed. Anything.'

'I suppose that lying does come easily to me now.' His lips lingered for one stolen moment upon the nape of Sweden's neck. Then he was gone, gone to meet with those they had once called brother. _And still I do not know which way to turn._

He ended up in the forest, far enough that the bustling hum of the Danish army could not be heard through its wind-ruffled trees. Sweden's feet were silent as they pressed against the pine needle-strewn ground, at one with the dense and springy earth. _Forests like these are the best to hunt in._ No leaves that might crack or crumble, no shadowing canopies of leaves- only pure air and naked steel at his side. But the enemy Sweden faced now was not one of flesh and blood. Memories of a better life returned to him upon the ashen wings of time. Norway, never more alive than when in a place like this; he crept, he stalked, always smiling, until a foe that did not understand sprang forth and choked off his love of all that was green and growing. The scars were like nothing else Sweden had laid eyes upon. _Open flame and raw smoke- I should have been there, should have done more_ \- and none of it mattered anymore. Not when his apologies were worth less than the dust of old bones.

Somehow the thought of Norway spiked a dull sickness into his gut. Sweden's palms were clammy as he ventured further into the forest, trying to force the still-clear image of his estranged brother away. _Why do I fear him so? Both of them- what have they done that is so terrible?_ They were equals in war and stature alike, empire and kingdom balanced out by the weight of their old legacies. But there was honour to be found in war, no matter what Finland said. An honour that his brothers were owed simply by their presence at Dressau Bridge and Lutter. _Better then to fight and lose, than to stay safe and not fight at all._ Cowardly. That was the word that seemed to stick best in this quagmire of events. Though Sweden refused to wear the name, to hear its cold consonants slide from the tongue and know that they referred to him.

'What do you want from me, Odin?' he murmured, one hand caressing the smooth waxy trunk of a pine tree. The very scent of them was intoxicating; nature's perfume, stealing its way into his already addled priorities and stirring them up further still. 'I have given you everything. You were always my god, even when the rest of the world forgot you, and it was in your trust that I placed my strength.' Sweden raised world-wearied eyes to the sky. 'I need that strength now.'

He would never know what that day in the forest took from him. Sweden woke all of a sudden, back against that same pine tree, glasses hanging askew. Wind whistled and snapped at his cloak as he left, its grey sting like the jaws of a wolf closing around the unfortunate prey. Hamburg's familiar hum was almost comforting after that, drowning out the cold ring in his ears, restoring normality to Sweden's tilted world. Suddenly facing the respective lions of Denmark and Norway in their den did not seem such a terrible prospect. _And I am in control,_ he reminded himself. _They have come to me for refuge and protection._ A light rain was falling when he strode in through the city gates, dappling his hair and clouding his glasses.

'..struck down- yes, that's right...' Snatches of conversation floated through the garrison's main hallway. 'A red-eyed demon did it,' someone was saying. 'Murdered the Norwegian-' Sweden had heard enough. He sank down onto the marble steps, fingers clenching nervously in his hair, praying that the ache in his heart would subside. _It cannot be. It cannot be him._ But some foul instinct within him was whispering otherwise. That alone was enough to force Sweden running up the stairs, determined to lay these petty fears to rest. The main gallery of the house was deserted- except for a lone figure at the end, familiar golden head resting in cupped hands.

'Fin?' Sweden's voice was thick, choked. 'What happened?' He laid a tentative hand on Finland's shoulder, leaping back when Finland snapped his head up in reflex.

'You say I am strong...' The words tailed off like smoke in a summer squall.

'Always,' murmured Sweden, and nothing could have been truer. 'I will always stand by it.'

'Then please.' Violet eyes peered up at him from beneath a honeyed fringe, watery and wavery with tears. 'Believe it still once you have seen.' Finland waved a hand behind him, to a door that hung ajar by no more than an inch. _Once you have seen._ So Sweden stood, and entered the room.

The source of Finland's distress was obvious at once. For a while he could do nothing but stand; stand, watch, wait, pray that this nightmare would be over soon- pray that the cruel knife of care in his chest would fall away. Norway lay across the sheets of a cold, white bed, still attired in warlike garb. His face was alabaster, ash-and-blood streaked, only serving to emphasise the purple shadows of exhaustion beneath his eyes. And he did not move once. Not even with Denmark clutching his hand, smoothing back his hair, mumbling a constant string of nonsense endearments and prayers. _Their bond was ever long and strong._ The thought disquieted him somehow; he shook it off, brushing away the sudden image of Finland in his mind. But returning his attention to Norway was in no way better. Sweden did not dare to ask if he was dead, fearing both the answer and the sound of his brother's voice. He found himself hoping beyond hope that it was not so... _for without enemies, how would we show our power? More than that, more than that,_ whispered the treacherous half of Sweden's mind. Brother. Nation. Friend. It was treachery that curled his fingers between Norway's, discarding duty for this stolen second of freedom.

'A sacrifice.' Denmark spoke slowly, as though he had forgotten how to. Sweden could not bear to look at his face.

'What do you-'

'He called himself a sacrifice. I heard him say it, as the Prussian cut-' His brother broke off. He drew in a deep breath, eyes closing, holding Norway's hand close to his face.

'A sacrifice to who?' Sweden asked, mustering up the final vestiges of his courage.

'I don't know,' mumbled Denmark, and it was perhaps the first time in his life that he sounded afraid. Despite their differences, Sweden acknowledged that very little frightened his brother- so this was something terrible. A nightmare beyond nightmares. He fell silent and bowed his head. For how long they remained like that Sweden could not be sure; time passed slowly, strangely, like honey dribbling from a jar. His knees soon began to ache from the pressure of the hardwood floor. But in that moment, nothing could have kept him from Norway's side. _And I will never admit it,_ he thought, a minute smile creasing his face. _I must hate and hate until it becomes who I am, must give my love and concern only to empires and kingdoms._ Nations could not have brothers, families. It defied the very rules of nature. Built for war- for war they were used. No more.

'He is.. he isn't- you know-' Yet Sweden's stuttering question was so very arife with concern.

'Dead?' Denmark made a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a bark of derision. 'Feel that.' He thrust Norway's wrist at Sweden. 'Go on. Touch the vein.' Cautiously, as though he encroached upon some unforbidden territory, Sweden brushed one finger against the milky blue line of Norway's life.

'Can you feel a pulse?' He pressed the finger down a little harder, searching for a flicker of activity. Nothing. The skin was icy, almost hard. _Like marble,_ thought Sweden. _Blue-veined and pretty, but cold and dead as well._

'Denmark-' The name felt rusty and unused in his mouth- '-Denmark, he's gone. There's nothing.'

'I know.' His brother's eyes slid shut, a machine breaking down after years of work. 'Everyone says it. They want to take his body- take him, bury him. Won't let Iceland see him. Apparently corpses aren't fit for the sight of young boys.' He did laugh then, though the sound was haunted, humourless. 'No rot. Nothing. Still alive.' Sweden forced his eyes back to Norway's prone form- to the snow-pale skin, the hidden indigo eyes, the shell of someone he had once known and loved as a brother. And there was no rot. _He cannot be dead if there is no decay, surely they must see that?_ Hope, sweet and treacherous, flared up in his heart.

'Then you must tell them! Make them understand, find a way to wake him up.' He reached out and grasped Denmark's shoulder, an old camaraderie resurfacing past centuries of hurt. Or so it seemed. Denmark's head turned slowly, eyes cast down to the floor. Then he stared straight up at Sweden.

'I have not forgotten, _lillebror_.' The words hung between them; sharp, poisoned. _I am not your_ lillebror _. I will never be that scared child again._ 'Is that what you wanted? To hope that this would all be over, that we might build our friendship anew?' Sweden let his fingers fall. 'You were wrong,' whispered Denmark, and in that moment he was utterly mad, a demon blinded by two crashing masses of love and hate in his heart.

'Perhaps I hoped it.' His glasses no longer seemed to be working- the room spun, clouded and too hot. 'Perhaps it might have happened, in a different world.' Bitter fury and despair leapt up the tight walls of Sweden's throat, planting a dull ache of sickness in his heart. _Never forgive again-_ he saw King Gustavus' face on the insides of his inflamed eyelids- _never trust again. He is dangerous. He will take everything, like he did all those years ago. Do your duty._ That last part carried the floating tones of Finland's voice. So Sweden did his duty. He dropped Norway's hand, stood, left, never once looking back at the blackened creature his brother had become.

'You always did make me ashamed of myself, _storebror_.' Not now. Not ever.

Summer faded to autumn, autumn to winter, and it was in that ashen season that the Swedish army finally traipsed back home. Not in the gilt-edged cloak of victory, as King Gustavus had wished, but demoralised, demotivated and humiliated.

'We must enter the war under our own banner, as soon as possible,' Sweden told the king as they sat in Stockholm's resplendent council chamber. It was the first gathering of the government since their return, and he wanted to progress in strategy with haste. 'That is, if you still wish to play a part in these games.' Gustavus shot him a sly-eyed glare.

'I did not spend countless years and _krona_ developing our military for nothing.'

'Then we must attack-' The king raised a hand, complacent and patient in equal measures.

'I know that Hamburg was a difficult time for you, a time that has created a desire for battle. Revenge is easy to understand. But what you must understand is this- my hands are tied, not least by our Polish cousins.' Sweden's heart sank. The House of Vasa was a complex, twisting tree, with roots in several of Europe's royal families; one of its most senior branches was that of the Polish king Sigismund. 'Going into battle alongside Danish forces gave us protection from the conflict in Poland,' continued Gustavus. 'But that protection, no matter how flimsy, is gone now, and thus we cannot enter the European war and expect to prevail.' To Sweden, the solution was blindingly obvious. Use their new-found might to subdue King Sigismund, then march back west and show Europe the true meaning of a northern winter. He hated this- hated the endless games of lords and princes, the constant scheming, when sometimes the best thing to do was to assert your strength. _It worked in the Viking times. And this is a different time, a darker time, but why should the principle have changed?_

'Your Grace, I urge you to sail east and attack, before the Polish have time to suspect anything. This is our best chance; perhaps, our only chance.'

'I thought you knew better how these things worked,' said the king, resting his smile on steepled fingers. A flash of irritation swept through Sweden.

'With respect, my life has revolved around _these things_ since the days of Harald Bluetooth. I am sure my knowledge of them surpasses yours, Your Grace, and-'

'Oh, really? I was under the impression that I sat the throne, not you.' _Not now. Not now._ The last thing he needed was for someone to light his already-short fuse.

'I ask you, as a councillor and friend, to reconsider the current strategy and sail at once for Poland.'

'And I ask you not to presume upon our past agreements!' Gustavus rose to his feet, a terror in silver and black-slashed navy. _There are no traces of the clever boy he once was in that face,_ thought Sweden with a deepening sorrow. He had lost wisdom- and gained cunning, gained adroitness- but at what cost? 'I have seen countless feuding brothers reconcile after decades. The issue has marred your judgement, I fear. So resolve it.' The king gave a little flick of the hand. It took Sweden a second to unravel his meaning: and once he did, the shame was all too sudden.

'Your Grace-'

'You are dismissed.' Three words he had never expected to hear. Do your duty- they were more familiar, easier to understand. And again, though it brought him lower than he ever thought to sink, Sweden did just that. The door slammed shut behind him with a crash that was bitterly redolent of finality.

He had never been fond of fire. It seemed to mock him, flames bobbing about in a rhythm that his eyes could not follow, every pop and crackle like a burst of impish laughter. But now Sweden stared into the depths of a grate, watching those orange tongues of heat twist about one each other. The warmth of it was almost intoxicating. He drew closer, hands oustretched as though to ward off King Gustavus' regal chill. Sweden sighed. Five days had passed since that last tense meeting in Stockholm. Now he was stranded here in Uppsala, under the pretext of some invented monetary issue. The real reason would have been obvious to a blind man. _He does not want my advice, does not want to hear anything but his own praises echoed from the mouths of a dozen preening peacock courtiers._ In reality, Gustavus was not a vain man, more given over to fighting than flattery. But he prided his own intelligence with a king's bearing, and could not bear to have that intelligence questioned. _So he sends me away, here to await news of the newest royal folly._

Six days. Seven days. More than a week. All without a single word from the capital.

Sweden was woken on the first day of the new year by the bellowing cry of the harbourmaster's horn. He slid from the bed half-blind, one hand fumbling around for his glasses. _Odd. There are no scheduled shipments for this morning._ Uppsala's morning air clawed at his face as he stalked along the battlements, clothes thrown on in a hurry, to a little tower from which the sea's steely depths could be glimpsed. A gull screeched somewhere overhead; all else was silent, but for the soft splash of waves on stone. Finland was already there, draped in solemn blue and grey. _Hard colours for hard times._

'Why did they blow the horn?' he asked, stepping up onto the viewing platform.

'Look.' The answer was brittle, tight-tongued. Sweden strained his eyes out to sea, past the shoals of wavering fishing boats to a darker sight beyond. A dozen ships- no, more than that, two score at least. 'Three hundred, I hear,' said Finland, as though he could read minds.

'Where are they going?' But Sweden's words fell limply from his mouth; he knew exactly where, and to whom the fleet belonged. _Loyalty, Your Grace. Isn't that the most important thing?_

'Poland, I assume.' Together they watched the progress of the Swedish ships, strewn across the horizon in a long dark chain. _He left us behind._ The knowledge stabbed into Sweden's heart and held tight, like some malignant burrowing parasite. To no longer be trusted, to be regarded as unimportant- those were things, that he had, in his immortal complacence, never considered might befall him. Yet now they had. And in the name of a true emperor, a man who could lead his country to greatness.

'Fin-'

'Our time will come.' Sweden's voice faltered. It should have been their time after Kalmar, should have been the start of a glorious empire long ago. _We have been saying that for a century now. But when will it finally come to pass?_ Finland's eyes, sharp as splintered amethyt, locked onto his own dark ones. 'I am strong now, Ruotsi. I feel it in my bones, feel it every time I think of my land or speak in my own tongue. My country is ready for greatness.' He took a deep breath, not breaking the gaze. 'You promised me greatness. Before we fled Denmark, you swore that we would become powerful.'

'And have we not? Sweden is the one of the most powerful kingdoms in Europe-'

'Ah yes, Sweden.' Finland gave a harsh laugh. 'Fear not, your land will always hold a place in my heart.' His hands enclosed one of Sweden's to soften the blow, fingers warm and soft despite the morning chill. 'I have been cold of late, I admit it. But this is more than us- sweet as us might be- it is the future of who I am, Ruotsi. And I need to know that my potential will be fulfilled.' There was nothing Sweden would have liked more than to fall to his knees and pledge eternal fealty to the one he loved, to promise Finland the world and mean it with every word.

'Don't leave me.' _Is that all I can say? When my king deserts me, when all I hold dear is at stake-_ don't leave me. But it rang bitterly true. Finland laughed again, this time with a regret that stung through Sweden's soul.

'I could not do that, not to you or to me. Yet freedom would taste so sweet-' He broke off, biting at his lip, squeezing Sweden's fingers tighter still. Irony danced on the air, never quite coming into contact with his thoughts; he heard its mirthless laughter all the same.

'One day,' he began, voice betraying but a tiny tremor of emotion. 'One day, I will have to let you go. For us to be happy. I never wanted to be a jailor, Suomi-'

'Oh, you never were...' And then they were entwined again, bonded by something that fought and fought, never letting go despite the endless torture of the world, together as a sole entity of love and hope. _Still, still, always._ Duty tore at them, took everything except this- this passion, this moment of grace, this final calm before the storm. Yet Sweden would do his duty all the same.

 **A/N: Sweden didn't enter the Thirty Years' War as an independent nation until 1630, due to unfinished conflicts in Poland. That's where the battle fleet is going, just to clarify! :) (also I apologise for the rushed ending)**


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: So I know I forgot to put dates and places on the last chapter (sorry), but hopefully it's clear what was going on (?) I just wanted to tell you that this chapter will continue on from Sweden and Denmark's meeting in the previous chapter, so we're jumping back a few months but there's no drastic changes. So at the start of this chapter it's summer 1626 in the Holy Roman Empire. Again, sorry for making things so confusing xD But I hope you're all still enjoying the story (if anyone's still reading it idk) and let me know what you thought of this chapter! (also tw for lots of blood...)**

 **Hamburg, Germany, summer 1626**

Time passed strangely. It was no longer steady, no longer measurable, but a force of its own, roaring by in frantic hours or letting the minutes pass like honey from a jar, slow and lethargic. Denmark soon fell prey to its cruel grasp. If he closed his eyes, he was back in Iceland, watching verdant green light shift and ripple in the sky; or he was on a boat, back in the Viking times, sailing towards certain victory with not one ounce of fear in his heart. Every waking moment was a nightmare- and the rest merely teasing dreams. So he refused to sleep. _Better to see harsh truths than believe in sweet falsehoods._ He did not move from his place at Norway's side, clutching his hand as though he could transmit life between their palms, clinging blindly to his half-mad belief that nations could not die. For Denmark had seen the proof himself, had seen Norway scream and writhe amidst tongues of flame, only to emerge with his life intact. Hope, hope had come from that sorry episode as well. And that was what he did. He would not let go, remaining stubborn and defiant to the last, berating anyone who told him that Norway was dead, coaxing his final spark of motivation into something stronger. _They say love is strong. They say it overrides all evil_. Love had softened his heart, eased the rage within him- powerful, yes, but in the end he could not to what must be done. He could not let go- he could not be strong.

So Denmark struggled on alone, closed off from the world as it whirled past him, seeing nothing but Norway's comatose face on its cold pillow. He thought he glimpsed Sweden once, heard his voice... _no, it was another dream. Sweden would never come to see us._ One presence he could be sure of was Iceland's. He never showed himself, never spoke a word- but Denmark knew he was there all the same. Once he woke to find a blanket draped across his knees, and a bunch of ragged flowers on the table beside Norway's bed. That eased his heart, if only a little. Yet to see his face might have torn down Denmark's feeble composure entirely. For Iceland, young though he was, resembled his elder brother as he had been in centuries long since past. Whilst Norway slept on- not dying, not dead yet- Iceland was alive, awake, a constant reminder of everything his brother had lost. And that alone was too much in these sorrow-streaked days of pain. With every day that fell by, he feared that Iceland would leave him just like Sweden and Finland had, that Norway would die and Denmark would have no one left to care for. _Is that all I was ever good for? To be their custodian, the responsible older brother_? Somehow he did not think he had fulfilled that role to its full potential. For so long, Denmark had believed in his own fearlessness- now, he knew what it meant to be afraid. _And I have learnt that it is dangerous to love. Because there is nothing I can do to control its path, to shield myself from harm when the inevitable hurt comes._

'Dan.' A hand tugged at his sleeve. Denmark did not dare look away from Norway's face. ' _Dan_ ,' said the same voice, more insistently this time. But Norway's eyes were shadowed, his skin pale and sunken; the rest of the world meant nothing whilst he hovered between life and death. 'There's a meeting, the king says you have to go.'

'It can't be more important than this.'

'Noregur won't die whilst you're away. Please, Dan.' Iceland's words wormed their way into his head like begging little bees and stayed put. 'The king commanded you himself.'

'Would you just-' Denmark broke off, clenching his one free fist so that the anger would not spill out and overwhelm Iceland. 'Tell him I'm... I'm ill. Or injured from the battle, he'll let me off for that.

'He came to see you yesterday,' said Iceland softly. 'Remember? You told him you were all right, and that Norway was going to wake up soon. Remember?' He forced his mind through cloudy memories, searching for one that would light a candle of recognition. Nothing.

'No,' whispered Denmark through numb lips. _I'm losing my mind. I'm losing my mind. I'm losing-_ A small, trembling hand crept into his own. He turned his head slowly, uncertainly, and looked upon Iceland's face for the first time in days. The premature solemnity there kindled a dull ache in his stomach. Iceland's violet eyes were concerned- but no longer innocent, no longer hopeful, with a hard frost coating his once endearing naivete. Like Norway's, they pierced straight into the soul. And there it was. Denmark's every weakness had been laid bare to the world, to the one person he had hoped to protect for a little while longer.

'For Norway, Dan. You have to be strong for him. For all of us-' Iceland broke off, biting at his lip and squeezing Denmark's hand. 'I'm trying my best. But it's not enough-' He was interrupted again as Denmark swept him into his arms. It was as though a flame had flickered into life within him, dashing away all the dark shadows of doubt and clearing his overwrought mind.

'You shouldn't have to try,' Denmark whispered into the mop of pale hair. 'I'm sorry, Ice. It's me who should be trying- and I'll try harder, I'll be stronger for you now. I promise.' A warm tear snaked between them; he could not have said who it belonged to.

Denmark changed with shaking hands, discarding the war-ravaged clothes he had worn for a week in exchange for something more presentable. He stole a look in the tiny mirror before leaving. Pale, watery eyes stared back out at him, limp strands of hair falling across the haggard planes of his face, a mess of too-pale skin and the tell-tale lines of exhaustion creeping in at his brow. A living corpse, in truth. Which stung all the more when the present circumstances were considered. _I cannot do this. I cannot._ The thought knocked Denmark's energy from him as quickly as he had regained it, setting a tremor to his lips and a weakness in his limbs. _Oh, but you will._ This new voice was colder, iron-edged, and its tones brooked no argument. _Iceland is a boy and Norway is dying- you are the only one who can help them now._ He glanced up, head darting about as though someone else would come along and shoulder his responsibilities. There was no one but him in the room. He could get up, go and help salvage something for his land from the ashes of this calamity- or he could drown in the depths of his own despair, in the sweet black void that called to him whenever times grew hard. But Denmark's sense of justice, amongst all he had lost, remained intact. So he stood, and faced his fate head-on as he always did.

King Christian stood with his back to the door, examining the maps spread in front of him whilst his commanders wrote letters or studied maps of their own. He acknowledged Denmark's dishevelled appearance with nothing more than a nod, and gestured for him to take a seat. Denmark experienced a little rush of thanks that his absence over the past week would not be spoken of- for now.

'My lords,' Christian began formally. 'We have arrived at a crossroads in this war: we can stand and fight, or retreat back to the capital and devise a new strategy.'

'What about the Swedish alliance?' put in one commander. 'We might call upon them to aid us, and take Hamburg as our own city. Their troops are still unused, as the rumour goes.' It was much more than a rumour, Denmark knew. Enmity still bubbled beneath the surface of peace, and whilst it remained their two kingdoms could never be truly allied together.

'I fear that we can trust no one but ourselves for the meantime,' said the king. 'Until we have regained a good deal of our former strength, there is no value in an alliance with such a king as Gustavus Adolphus.' He jabbed a gloved finger onto the map, indicating Stockholm. Suddenly the distance between Sweden and Prussia was a gaping one. 'But whilst he remains in his capital city, we are safe. There is too much distance between here and there for any action of ours to carry much threat.'

'Then what do you propose?' said another commander, the harsh bark of his voice falling cruelly on Denmark's ears. He had lost touch with this routine, with the various complicated discretions of a council meeting, had forgotten how to plot and plan without fear hanging over his head the whole time. 'Surely Your Grace does not mean to retreat. It would be to bring shame upon the entire country.' _I am already ashamed. For letting myself fall into weakness- willingly as well._

'No, we cannot retreat. That has never been our way.' Christian scratched at his salt-and-pepper beard, eyes hard and steely as they scrutinised the maps. 'But this plan, when we make it, will be for the good of Denmark. Not for our alliances, our chances in the war- for our land, and nothing more.' He let his gaze linger upon each person for long enough to disquiet them. _For the good of Denmark. Always, always for the good of Denmark._ Twin snakes of gratitude and guilt entwined around his conscience. It was for his nation that they had fought for so many times over the centuries, to preserve an ancient freedom bestowed upon him by nothing more than the strength of his own sword. Denmark had always been free, no matter what- it occurred to him that freedom was not such a petty thing after all. _I have seen entire empires fall into nothing, bigger kingdoms than mine bow to new conquerors_. He vowed that the same would never happen to him.

'We must hold onto our ties with Sweden,' said Denmark, more than a little surprised by the sound of his own voice. 'Anything they can give us- troops, supplies- is welcome now. Returning to the capital will not be seen as fleeing until we formally withdraw from the fray- so let Gustavus bestow his wealth upon us, let him rebuild our strength with his own resources, and soon we will be able to reassert this kingdom as a major part of the war.' There was silence for a moment after he spoke. The words, he felt, flowed from some secret vestige of hope within, pieces of wishes captured and held close until they were needed again. _My final stand- is that what they call it?_ All Denmark's dreams were dying with Norway, stranded in his sleep. So he clung to anything else he could- yes, even the farce of a pact with Sweden, and let that fuel his pretense of caring.

'It is true that Swedish aid would benefit us at this time,' said the king quietly. 'If Gustavus wishes to fund our battles, then so be it. We stay in the alliance.' There were nods and murmurs from around the table; something warm blossomed within Denmark.

'But do we not mean to take Prussian lands?' said the first commander who had spoken. 'Hamburg is a major city of-'

'Hamburg cannot be held by our army in its current state,' cut across Christian. 'No, my lords, we march north or we stay here and are defeated.' He took a roughly sketched map and a quill pen, drawing a line in ink up the River Elbe and from there to the relative safety of Schleswig. 'The river will be our ally. Follow its course, and we have a clear path to our lands in northern Prussia.' _Back home,_ thought Denmark. A shaft of sunlight floating from the window caught his eye. He let its frail warmth spill across his face, leaving the others to argue over maps and plotting. It was obvious what would happen- they would return to Copenhagen, argue some more, have another meeting with King Gustavus, then march back into a war that had nothing to do with them in the first place. _Though kings and lords must have the chance to prove themselves. And it seems they can only do that through battle and blood, even in this day and age._ Fleetingly he thought of how Norway would have loved to be here, would have revelled in the dark enigma that was strategy, devising schemes that were always two or three steps ahead of the enemy. _Oh, Odin-_ Norway was there, mere yards away in a room upstairs, either drawing new breath or succumbing to fate- and Denmark could not breathe, the cold hands of reality closed around his neck and did not let go, he was dying- dying-

'What is his state as of this morning?'

'What?'

'Lukas. Has there been any change?' The name woke Denmark from his terrified stupor, and he mouthed 'Norway' before realising what the king had said.

'He... he is not breathing yet. But there is no decay, no rot-' How he hated using such words to describe his Norway- '-so he cannot be dead.' Christian fixed him with a cold stare.

'Revive him, or I will be forced to assume he is dead. We leave tomorrow.' _Tomorrow_. The word hung between them; sharp, poisoned. Only then did Denmark's panic return- a thousand times larger and closer than before.

He returned to Norway's room, urgency quickening his frantic footfalls, mouth dry and heart rapid.

'Wake up,' whispered Denmark, throat hoarse. There was no reply. There was never any reply these days. Ignoring the ache in his knees, he crouched down beside Norway, taking his hand. 'Please, Nor. You have to wake up. Please. Wake up. Or they're going to-' What would the king do, if Norway never rose again? _Burn his body, most like, and forget that this sorry episode ever happened_. 'Wake up, Norge. I don't know what I'd do without you.' His voice soon became scratchy and rough as he repeated the mantra over and over, hoping foolishly that it would penetrate Norway's consciousness and rouse him from sleep. 'Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.' That was all he could say after a while, mumbling those two words countless times until they lost all meaning. And that was how Iceland found him, hissing a jumbled blend of curses and pleas into Norway's ear, weeping all the while.

'Dan,' he said. 'You won't wake him up like that.' Slowly Denmark raised his head. His face was streaked with misery, defeated and despairing.

'How else, Ice? What more can I do?' The words stung as he spoke them. Iceland did not say anything for a moment, simply staring at his brother's prone form with cold eyes. 'I would do anything to have him back. Anything.'

'Then that's what we'll do.'

They yelled in Norway's ears, shouting insults and lies that he would have shuddered to hear, attempting to shock him awake. Iceland was crying too by then, but still he forced the falsehoods from his mouth. _This is wrong. More wrong than I can say. We should not have to stoop to such levels of horror to be happy again, should not be forced beyond what is right to regain what we have lost._ When that failed, Denmark drew his dagger and knelt again. Perhaps pain would jolt him back to life.

'Know that I do this for love,' he murmured against the blade. 'That I mean no harm, only good, and I know you would do the same for me.' Then he lifted Norway's hand, holding it like sugar glass, and made a cut along one of his fingers. The blood that poured forth was oddly watery. It spilled out onto Denmark's hands, crusting in crimson pools upon his pale skin, but he made the next incision with little more than a grimace. With every flash of the knife something faded in his heart; with every drop of blood he vowed to Norway he would pay it back in kind. At last it was done, and Norway's fingers were all stained scarlet. And still he did not wake.

'What will we do now?' asked Iceland, eyes wide and afraid. Denmark looked down at his hands- at the fruits of his labours, terrible bright vermillion red, and _useless, useless, useless._

'We keep trying.' Later, he would be proud and horrified in equal parts at Iceland's composure, and utterly disgusted with himself for the ordeal he created. Norway was spared nothing. They doused him in freezing water, reverted from yelling obscenities to whispering soft words of love and back again, slapped his face with reluctant hands. On and on it went, until Denmark could see nothing for the tears, could hear nothing but Iceland's sobbing tearing a rift in his already fragmented heart. He would come to think of that as the day Iceland truly grew up. _I let him shed his own innocence, and at what cost? His last memories of his brother will be bloodstained and terrifying._ A brisk knock sounded at the door.

'He is gone, then,' said King Christian as he entered the room.

'No-'

'He shall be given a hero's burial in Copenhagen, laid to rest in the royal Roskilde Cathedral in recognition of everything he gave for this country.' The king's face betrayed no flicker of emotion as he gazed down at his fallen vassal; he stood as though carved from stone, still and solid. A tiny burst of courage flared within Denmark, and he shifted Iceland closer to his side.

'This is not what he would have wanted.' _He would have wanted to drift out across the Norwegian Sea on a Viking longboat, forever free in the kingdom of Valhalla. He would have wanted to stay with us._

'He fought as a subject of Denmark for years, and remained true to our kingdom through all hardships. Such loyalty must be rewarded with adequate splendour.' Denmark made as though to protest again, but Christian raised a finger. 'Pomp and ceremony may not be important to those with eternal lives,' he said, smiling slightly. 'But in the mortal world, our extravagance may be the only way we are remembered. It is an honour that this task should fall to me, though you will not see it that way. Do I have your permission?' He closed his eyes, let himself imagine what it would have been like to bid Norway farewell out on the open ocean. _You came to me by sea, my love, and I would have had you leave me that way if you had to leave me at all. But this way I will never be far from your ghost. This way, your memory will haunt me forever._

'You have my permission.'

That night he stood a vigil at Norway's side, dressed in crimson-enamelled silver armour with a longsword clutched between his mailed hands. The room was dark, lit only by four tall tallow candles that made his head spin with their heady scent. Denmark did not look down once. His final memory of Norway would have him bloodstained and grimy- but more alive than the perfumed corpse he resembled now. Someone had dressed Norway in his court clothes and bandaged his fingers, and the dried blood was gone from his silver-gold hair. But he no longer smelt of pine needles and sharp, fresh air; he no longer smelt like himself. Exhaustion bit at Denmark like an enraged hound. His eyes were watery from incense, and the weight of the armour pressed into his back as it never did during battles. _I will go mad, standing here for the whole night with no company but the dead._ But it was for Norway, and because of that reason alone Denmark was determined to see the vigil through. Snow was falling outside; it drifted through the pale gap of an open window, piling up in a thin white line...

...he swayed, drowning, dreaming, in a world of ice crystals and flickering flames. Den, called out Norway. _Den, why don't you come and join us?_ He glimpsed Norway, sat in sunlight with Iceland beside him. _Denmark!_ Norway was screaming. _Help us!_ The vision crumbled into black and red like the shadowed wings of some fever dream, ricocheting madly around the tortured base of Denmark's skull, tormenting his every thought and twisting it to become something terrifying. And then the knife was in him again, red-hot, ice-cold, stabbing, _killing_... Denmark woke with a shout of terror. For a moment the darkened room was unfamiliar, and he reached for his sword. Yet something from the nightmare remained with him- that sensation of utter misery, of being overwhelmed by emotion until he was too numb to feel anymore. He knew what that felt like, and kept the memories locked away in the darkest corners of his heart. _Find something to fight for,_ Denmark told himself firmly. _Iceland. He is worth staying strong for; he deserves better._ And he vowed that this time would not be like the last- because if it became so, then there was nothing, no one, who could scrape their little family back from the brink a second time.

 **Northern Germany, summer-autumn 1626**

They set off for Copenhagen the next morning beneath a cream-and-pink sky, marred here and there by dark lines of cloud, a weak autumn sun reflecting its rays off steel armour. Norway's body rode in a wagon flanked by eight knights with black mourning plumes streaming from their helmets. The wagon was adorned with deep blue silk and white roses to bear its ancient passenger home, given a wide berth by the rest of the column out of respect. Denmark and Iceland rode just ahead of it. They too were attired in borrowed black clothes, completing the woeful air of despondency that hung over everyone and everything that day. _Strange, that such a depressing colour should be what we choose to mark the end of someone's life with._ If he ever had a funeral of his own one day, Denmark swore that he would not let a single person wear black- he wanted to be remembered with light, colour, laughter. And Norway had been all that. All that, and so much more.

'Will we have to fight again?' came a small voice from his side. Iceland's face was pale and wan, creased with lines of fatigue and grief, but he had not complained once.

'I suppose so, at some point.' Denmark did his best to sound reassuring. 'Though you don't have to fight-'

'Yes I do. For him.' There was no trace of uncertainty in his voice as he rode on, sat tall and proud in the saddle. _For him. For Norway._ He could live by that; he could live on sheer memory if the world would allow it.

When they stopped to make camp that night, the inevitable evening meeting was called, and for once Denmark took Iceland along as company. Norway had played that part for almost seven centuries; now his brother would have to step in and fill the empty space. The guards uncrossed their spears, and the two of them ducked under the tentflap, stepping through into King Christian's council pavillion.

'Ah, good,' the king greeted them. He nodded kindly at Iceland, gesturing towards the chair to his right. Iceland sank into it with as much dignity as a boy of ten could muster. Pride swelled up in Denmark; his thoughts turned immediately to Norway, and he shook his head as though to dispel them. 'My scouts have reported that the Prussian army is heading north at a steady pace,' began Christian once everyone was seated. 'We have already established that the our own forces are not strong enough to face this foe and win; so we shall continue back to Copenhagen before dawn tomorrow, so that we might regain a little ease of mind.' The assorted commanders mumbled their assent, no doubt a little dejected that they would not be fighting again for a while. 'Are there any other issues that the council must hear?' Some offered news of petty squabbles amongst the troops. The rest was all about supplies and weapons and other paltry troubles that Denmark did not care for, but he forced himself to listen. His mind drifted to dangerous places these days when left unchecked- and more importantly now, it was vital that Iceland learnt the ways of a council meeting. _Once I prayed that he would never have to grow up. Now, I will it more than ever, only so Norway's wish that he becomes strong is fulfilled._

The column was roused before first light as threatened, with saddlebags packed and tents folded away in a drowsy daze. A jolt of sickness raced through Denmark as it always did when he saw Norway's funeral wagon, unwelcome and unnecessary. They spoke of lovesickness in the songs, of a bond so strong that two people could not bear to be parted. But he knew it was more than that. This was a sickness born of loss- eternal loss- and the knowledge that never again would he feel Norway's cold fingers dance across his skin, hear the low smooth lilt of his voice, cup his face between adoring hands and whisper words of love and peace. So he poured his sickness into the cold monotony of the day, and let lament fuel his every move. A day passed in this manner. Then two. Three. They still woke at the crack of dawn each day, still marched until past evenfall, walked and rode and struggled so hard that the exhaustion in the column could almost be felt, hanging on the air like a silent solemn ghost.

'We cannot progress in this manner for much longer,' Denmark murmured to the king on that third night. 'Either we succumb to weakness and fatigue, or we die upon the swords of our enemies. I know which I would prefer.' Christian held his gaze for at least a minute, steel-grey eyes seeming to grow colder with every second that went by. Then he nodded.

'Have the soldiers armour and equip themselves. I will not be chased down like a deer in the hunt for one day longer.'

 **Jutland, southern Denmark, autumn 1626**

They awaited the Prussian army with mingling trepidation and nervous excitement, clustered in groups amongst the trees to give them the element of surprise. Denmark and Iceland crouched at the base of a great oak tree, breath spilling out in ghostly white plumes. The morning was cold and damp. But a fever kindled in Denmark's blood as the thump of hoofbeats vibrated through the ground, rhythmic and constant, growing louder and closer with every passing second. No longer did he fight for glory, for riches and plunder. _For Norway. So that we might bear him home upon the sweet winds of victory._ A sharp whistle pierced the air as the first bullets were let loose from their rifles, a weapon that Denmark was disinclined to trust after relying on longbows for so long. He had his own gun, newly made for the war and strapped to his back with several containers of bullets, but the sword at his side was more comforting than the protection of a thousand rifles. Cries echoed through the air as men and horse alike fell- and the low, crackling boom of a cannon soon swallowed them all up. That was the signal to march. Glancing down at Iceland, Denmark began to walk, and was pleased to hear the soldiers behind him doing the same.

Entering the battlefield was like being transported to another world. With the invention of firearms, war had become a close, messy thing, nothing like the relative elegance of swords and knights and daggers. The Prussian cavalry, what there was left of it, charged about with no direction, trampling anyone unfortunate enough to be in the way. Infantrymen fired again and again, grimacing as their guns shook with fiery power. Denmark lifted his gun and shot. He thought he might have hit the target; a strangled cry split the air. So he shot again, turned to avoid a rampaging horse, drew his trusty little knife and plunged it deep into the chest of a foeman. But fear reigned within him- his heart was thumping, driving his pulse too fast and frantic, screaming at his instincts. _This is not right,_ he thought, taking aim and firing. Denmark had wanted to fight for Norway, to create a battle worthy of his memory- this was no more than a slaughter. _Kill, murder, destroy, that's all I do now-_ and the Prussians were everywhere, stepping over the bodies of their northern neighbours, shouting in their unfamiliar guttural tongue, taking control as they were never supposed to. _You cannot be afraid,_ a voice inside Denmark's head screamed _. I know, I know,_ he told it, abandoning the gun and raising his sword high. The confused, weak part of him was subdued, giving way to the wild old Viking whose story was writ in blood alone. And then he charged.

The gunmen of the Holy Roman Empire were mostly young men, who had only ever trained with the rifle, never against a longsword. So they fell to Denmark's blade with little retaliation, in large enough numbers that hope was no longer a folly. Through his crimson-veiled sight, terrible and bloody, Denmark glimpsed a tiny silhouette standing on the other side of the battlefield. _Iceland_. Oh, he was still raging, still furious at the injustice and futility of this war, but there was feeling enough left in him to know what was truly important. So he tore back the way he had come, carving out his path with nothing but steel.

'Ice,' he gasped, running up. 'Ice, what are you doing?' Iceland shook his head mutely, holding out his arm.

'It hurts,' he whispered. A long, raw graze ran the length of his forearm, blackened here and there with gunpowder and the grime of battle. Blood seeped through the tormented flesh like crimson tears. 'I tried to dodge the bullet, but-' Dropping his sword, Denmark enfolded Iceland in a close embrace, trembling with the thought of what might have happened if the bullet found its mark.

'It's all right,' he murmured. 'You're all right.'

'Can we go home now?' The words were mumbled through a child's soft delirium, but they froze something inside Denmark all the same. He remembered what the king had said, how he vowed never to be the chased deer again when it came to war. _Yet like the deer we must run now, away from the stronger clutches of our foe._ So he rose to his feet, Iceland's hand held tight in his, and walked away from the battle. Shouts of 'Retreat!' bellowed all around, and the Danish army certainly obeyed, abandoning their already slim chances of victory and returning to the dark security of the forest. The soldiers of the Holy Roman Empire were by no means triumphant, having lost large numbers of their own men, but they had won- and winning was all that mattered in a war like this one.

So once again they fled, conceding with every step another inch of Danish land. There was no other choice. The column reassembled, painfully diminished, tailed by a foe whose control had grown so much that they could be lazy in their pursuit. _For we stand no chance now. We tried our luck, and in the end we could not hold them off._ Frustration gnawed at Denmark like a steel-toothed beast, compounded by the knowledge that he could do nothing to prevent the slow encroachment of the Catholic forces. Iceland grew weaker and more feverish with each passing day. His wound had been treated and bandaged, given the best care possible on the shameful march home, but the graze was closer to the bone than Denmark had thought previously. And again he could do nothing. He was useless, pointless without Norway, unable to even protect his lost love's legacy from the slightest hurt.

 **Copenhagen, Rosenborg Palace, autumn 1626**

Their entry into Copenhagen was marked by pained silences and bowed heads. Winter had come early that year, and a light dusting of snow covered everything, shrouding the city in a white blanket of shame. But no shame could be worse than the dull finality pounding in Denmark's head as Norway was taken to an antechamber in the summer palace of Rosenborg, his last resting place before the interment in Roskilde Cathedral the next day. _He loved this palace most of all. The gardens, the quiet seclusion, the feeling of freedom._ They laid him out on a velvet-covered marble slab, still perfect, still whole, as though he was merely sleeping. Flowers carpeted the floor like a sweet-smelling rug of perfume. There were summer lilies, sprigs of the purple heather that was Norway's national flower, Denmark's own marguerite daisy mixed in amongst it, blowsy roses and wild eggshell blue forget-me-nots. Though few knew who Norway had truly been, many remembered his services to the kingdom of Denmark, and they had paid their respects through this garden-like haze of colour and perfume. Denmark perched himself on the edge of the marble slab. _So cold, so perfect,_ he thought, admiring with bittersweet tenderness how the violet of the heather mingled perfectly beside Norway's gold-touched hair.

'We lost the battle,' he muttered, weaving his warm fingers through Norway's icy ones. 'I knew we would, though. There was never really another chance, not after Lutter and Dressau Bridge.' There was no reply but the quiet sifting of snow outside. He took one of the marguerite daisies, twirling the stem between his fingers, letting its gentle aroma creep out and permeate the air. 'They'll besiege the city soon, once they've recovered from the last fight. Not that we dealt them much of a harsh blow to begin with.' Denmark nearly laughed at that, though the sudden lump in his throat choked off all humour. 'And I suppose that'll be the end of me.' Outside the window Copenhagen was lightly frosted, snowflakes dancing on a soft winter breeze amidst the backdrop of a storm-grey sky. _My city, the heart of who I am. Who I was._ He took a deep breath. Talking seemed to help. 'I might be a colony, like you were for so long.' He wondered childishly if it would hurt, to have his independence ripped away by the unforgiving jaws of the Holy Roman Empire. _I cannot fear pain. To fear pain is to fear living a true life._ But Denmark could say that he knew pain well now, had been dealt more than enough of it to stay unafraid. 'Or they might destroy me utterly. Give my lands to Sweden, let them become part of him until there is no reason for me to exist. And Iceland-' He broke off, true panic stinging at him suddenly, like a bolt of furious lightning. 'I am sorry,' he muttered. Denmark laid the flower back down, releasing Norway's hand as he did so. 'I could not protect him.' _We fall, then._ He let his eyes slide shut, yielding to grief and exhaustion, letting the warm world of darkness swallow him whole.

How long he sat like that Denmark was not sure- only that his hope drained away an inch more with every blackened second. His mind meandered through the fair fields of memory, unearthing times long since past, making him relive a life full of fleeting glory and countless, terrible heartbreaks. _And what if I had been different? If I was wiser, more cautious and patient, might we have had the empire that I dreamt of for so long?_ But he had not been cautious. He plunged headlong into everything, trusting his own fierce spirit to carry him through, not considering that his foes would be anything but intimidated. _I learnt my lesson, but not before the rest of the world did. Now I am paying that price with lives- my people's, Norway's, Iceland, and finally my own._ Denmark's existence had been a sorry, bitter one- and still he could not face his fate. His eyes stayed shut. So long did he ponder and languish for, he did not hear when a quavering voice split the thick silence.

'They have no ships.' The tiniest spark flickered at the edge of Denmark's conscience. He was dreaming, drowning... and then he flew, marvelling as the world grew lighter and his senses returned. 'They have no ships.' His eyes snapped open. For a moment he could only blink, staring down at his own feet in confusion. And then a thousand ice-cold snakes squirmed beneath his skin as something frozen brushed against his hand.

'What?' Denmark turned, mouth tremulous, eyes clouding over with something devastatingly warm; blue pools hovered amidst his hazy vision. He blinked. Norway was staring at him, bewilderment scrawled across his perfect face, lips turned down in confusion and a strange shiver wracking his whole body.

'I... I can't remember...' But it did not matter, because then he was in Denmark's arms, so close that they might have been a single being, clutching at him more tightly than should have been possible.

'Oh, gods,' whispered Denmark through a strangled breath. He pulled back to look at Norway's face, to make sure he was real. 'Oh, sweet Odin.'

'What- what happened?' said Norway, voice cracked from days of silence. His shoulders quivered with cold, so Denmark swept off his black mourning cloak and wrapped it around him.

'It was Prussia, don't you remember? We were in a battle, and he came up, you- you went for him, Nor. You spared no mercy.' He managed to coax a weak smile out of Norway at that.

'But I lost...' breathed Norway, tracing one finger down the silk of his tunic, following the exact path where Prussia's sword had torn the delicate flesh.

'It doesn't matter. You're here now. You're back.' Norway's cold confusion seeped through like a damning mist, smothering the room with its chill, but Denmark paid it no mind. Thrill surged through him, bright and fervent as an inferno, reigniting all the fires he thought he had lost. 'No matter how much land we lose,' he whispered. 'No matter how much power, this is what's important. Staying together.'

'Yes.' Norway's mumbled reply was like a chorus of proclaiming angels to Denmark then. He had his assurance, his carefully extracted promise of love. _All I ever wanted_. So that left him free to ignore the real dangers- Norway's perplexment, the frigid sensation of his skin, and the inevitable storm that would sweep in and subdue them all in this harshest of northern winters. _Let me be selfish, one last time. Let me pretend. Let me forget._


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: I apologise for the terrible lateness of this chapter! (nine days I believe...) and sorry if it's a bit scrappy, I've had exams all week so I haven't been able to write much :/ the next chapter may also be a bit late but once all my exams are over Ill be back to regular updates! Also, thank you so much for 30 follows on this story :)))) enjoy!**

 **The Baltic Sea, autumn 1626, en route to Poland**

Finland's heart had shattered so many times that he had long since given up trying to put the pieces back together. He struggled along with an aching hole instead, jumbled facets of light and dark bouncing off each other, pretending that every breath he took was not tinged with regret. In the dark places dwelt Denmark and Norway. Years of betrayal and deception meant that Finland's thoughts were his own, and he locked those of his brothers away deep down, fearing that they might tumble his already tenuous loyalties. _And in their suppression, I have grown selfish and needy._ He had confessed his sole desire to Sweden, had laid his soul bare and let it spill out and take control of him. Finland knew he was the cause of many of Sweden's various troubles and queries, of his tangled conscience when once it had been so free, yet the plight of his country was far stronger than his own willpower. Again a powerful trio tugged at the edges and corners of who he was- Russia on one side, looming dark and ominous; Sweden and all its lands, dependencies and their long entwined history, appealing to Finland's tarnished honour; and then Sweden himself, the man who loved him despite all- and the man who Finland, against what made sense, against the way of the world, loved with a desperate passion that was apt to frighten him at times. That left him with his fading wishes and tired old dreams. _Oh, how I wish things had been different. I wish and wish, and no good ever comes of it._ He knew exactly what he wanted. Sweden, with no strings attached, an equal upon every level of war and politics. He craved to give his affections freely- yet Finland held an irrational terror that he would be pulled back under into a dominion that only now he was gaining some respite from. So he waited, hoping beyond hope, for the day when everything would put itself to rights. _For I cannot make it so, no matter how much I try._

He had decided to indulge Sweden's stubborn loyalty for once, and now they were out on the open waters of the Baltic Sea, trailing King Gustavus' war fleet in a galley of their own. As soon as news had come of the king's landing in Poland, Sweden took it upon himself to follow. Finland complied with a dull resignation pounding inside of him. _But what else can I do?_ So now he stood on the decks of their slow little boat, the calm tide conjuring frustration, willing a wind to come and grant them swift passage to Poland.

'It is not long now,' murmured Sweden. He stood with his face to the breeze, eyes ringed with the purple shadows of fatigue, but bright behind their glasses. There was a sudden chilled gust of air, and he turned his gaze to Finland. No words were needed; he knew the insecurities that lay behind Sweden's blank mask, the doubt that still gnawed at him after over a hundred years of independence. Finland gave the tiniest of nods. It was a slight comfort to him that his approval meant something, no matter how much. Tenderness tightened his chest, and he had to force himself to repress it. _Don't give in to it. Don't give up._

 **Gdansk, Northern Poland**

As Sweden promised, the voyage was a short one, and they soon disembarked at the sheltered little port of Gdansk. It was a picturesque place, with whitewashed buildings lining the seafront and a string of fishing boats looping their way round the sea-stained harbour wall. But the war fleet anchored to one side was far from picturesque. Towering ships clustered together like a swarm of giant wooden bees, their cannons hanging dormant but ready. The Swedish flag was raised high on every one, a brazen show of strength which was no doubt why the village stood silent that day. As their own galley neared the shore, a low roar wormed its way into Finland's ears. The rumble of voices, layered with hoofbeats and stamping boots, all underneath the cacophony of war drums and herald's trumpets- an army. For the first time in years, fear pricked through his cold caution. Gustavus' anger was a terrifying thing when roused. It would not do for his two supposedly most trusted advisors to be on the receiving end of that anger. _There is no room for fear now. I cannot afford to be afraid of anything, or I will never be free again._

He clasped Sweden's hand briefly in his own before stepping down from the wooden decks and onto Gdansk's cobbled streets. Gustavus found them before they could reach him. A soldier in royal blue livery came trotting up with the king's banner in one hand, the _chink_ of chainmail just audible beneath his tunic and cloak.

'His Grace has commanded that you be brought to him immediately,' he said. 'Follow me, if you would.' They exchanged a glance and did as they were bid. But whilst Sweden's thoughts were no doubt of foreboding and uncertainty, Finland knew exactly what awaited them. _He did not take us with him to war, and we followed nonetheless._ No king with any ounce of pride would let such disobedience go unacknowledged. Gustavus' tent was upon a sloped hill, banners flying high and proud to inform all of his presence.

'I must admire your stubborn loyalty,' he said when Finland and Sweden entered the room. The king was lightly armoured, hints of polished metal shining through the rich fabric of his clothes, but the threat remained clear enough. _At least I think it is a threat. I see such things too easily now._ 'Please, sit.' They sank onto a pair of camp stools, facing Gustavus in his thronelike chair. The oil lamp spluttered and flickered; Finland's heart leapt in anticipation.

'Your Grace-' began Sweden.

'I expected to see you here,' cut across Gustavus. 'But not Finland, I admit. I was under the impression that your allegiances differed a little from those of Sweden?' He posed the question openly, freely, with no indications as to the right answer. Though Finland had played the game of politics long enough to know just what it was.

'I am pledged to Sweden, king and country,' he was forced to say. 'Your Grace, I have only ever served you. Why should it be any different?' But Finland knew he could not love the land of Sweden, not while he was bound to it with so many ties and knots. Yet another love held him back from all his hopes and dreams- a love that he would never give up, no matter how his land cried out for its brother. _I have chosen you, Ruotsi,_ he thought, glancing at Sweden's hooded eyes. _And I hope I will not come to regret it._ Gustavus shot a look his way that carried several intermingled meanings. For once Finland did not bother to unravel them, knowing only that his words had been unexpected to the king in some way. _Or he has some plan that involves me._ What with Sweden's current state of despair and the tenuous state of the empire, he was forced to settle for the latter.

'Very well,' said the king. He took a sip of wine from a jewelled goblet and settled back in his seat. 'If you will follow me as blindly as sheep, then I suggest you acquaint yourselves with your peers. You will walk with the infantrymen-'

'My lord-'

'-make camp beside them, eat with them, fight alongside them. And you will not attend my councils, for no other common soldier has that privilege. A privilege you threw away blithely, if I must be blunt.' Finland's head spun; he heard the words, but his mind refused to listen, denying everything that was being said. He had been alienated, isolated, diminished- but never had he been demoted to such a low rank. Mouth sour at the taste of his own pride, Finland clenched his fists and resolved to earn back what was his.

'We are amongst your most trusted advisors, Your Grace. To dismiss us now would be folly.' Gustavus raised a severe eyebrow.

'Folly, is it? Not so much as chasing after your liege lord with no second thoughts as to his orders.' He rose, pouring himself another glassful of wine. 'You may relocate to the common soldiers' ground.'

'But, Your Grace-' started an aghast Sweden.

'Begone. I will hear no more from you today.' They were ushered from the pavillion by a pair of guards, who escorted them to the infantry camp in the manner of disgraced fugitives. A red bite crept into Finland's face as he swept his gaze across the rows of tents. _There is no way back from here. Not unless we are obedient to the slightest order- and even then that renders us no more than sheep._

'What will we do?' he whispered, thoughts slipping dangerously from his mind.

'His Grace's grandfather used to say there was no captive more valuable than one who was bound to their land.' Sweden's voice sounded quietly at his shoulder, a low comforting hum through the agitated prickle of his thoughts.

'You mean...' Finland's breath caught in his throat. 'You mean we need to capture one of their nations.'

'In order to win back the king's favour, yes.' He wanted to protest, to proclaim it as madness, to shake Sweden from his daze and return him to reality. Finland of all people knew what freedom meant to a nation, having had his own stolen long ago. Now he yearned for it more than anything. But Sweden- there was no way Sweden, a powerful kingdom and now an empire on the brink of greatness, could ever understand. So Finland decided to be brave. _Or am I merely afraid to speak the truth?_ He swallowed his pride, and nodded.

Over those next few days of waiting, the insecurity of being left in the dark swamped Finland like a malevolent- and unexpected- force of evil. He had always been privy to his monarch's plans, had always had a say in what the next strategy or plan of attack should be. But Gustavus' dismissal meant that neither he nor Sweden knew where they would stand from one day to the next. They trained with the other footsoldiers, pitched their tent beside smoky little campfires at night, and slept in half-fear that some straggler or thief would come and steal their belongings. There was little discipline, and even less certainty. _We have taken security for granted, it would seem._ He said as much to Sweden on the third night of their vigil.

'He is only doing what he believes is right,' muttered Sweden, arms curled loosely about his knees. 'We cannot disagree with that.' Finland bit down upon his irritation. Even after years of war and hardship, Sweden still retained a hopeful naivete that was more often hindrance than help for him.

'What he believes is right may not turn out to be so, Ruotsi.' He moved closer, trying to probe at Sweden's secret thoughts. _He has never been easy to read. There is too much pain in his face for that._ 'You know what is best for your land, more than anyone. What is best for both our lands.' Exhausted blue eyes met his own. Sweden's face might have been a blank mask, but in his gaze Finland glimpsed entire worlds. Loyalty, love, happiness, redemption and validation hand in hand as always- and underlying them all, the two-faced coin of duty. _I cannot sway him now._ The thought punched into him with an iron-clad fist and refused to move. So Finland did only what he knew best- he slid his arms around Sweden, praying that this nightmare would pass, and let his heart wail out its long and mournful song for another night. _One day. One day I will make him realise._ That day had been five centuries in the coming; he doubted empty hope would make it arrive any sooner. But hope was all they had now.

When the Polish army came thundering over the hill, shattering Gdansk's frail peace, Finland felt his heart harden with determination. He remembered what Sweden said- if they captured an enemy nation, their return to Gustavus' trust and council would be guaranteed. A part of him had shrunk from such a duty at first, not wanting to throw himself upon the king's mercy, but in the end Finland knew this was the only way.

'Rifles!' He raised his gun to his shoulder, eyes alert. There was no sound but the quiet hiss of a thousand breaths, no sight more important than the fur-clad cavalry stampeding their way down the black line of the horizon. Soon the hoofbeats came into earshot: clamping, stamping, drumming down on the packed earth like a harsh warning bell.

'Fire!' An ache burst through Finland's arm as he let his shot loose. It crackled through the air in a blaze of death-tinted gunpowder, hurling itself into the heart of a Polish hussar. Fierce satisfaction ignited a spark in his head. He fired again and again, every bullet meeting its mark, knowing that he was victorious in the dying screams of his victims. This- this was lighter than a sword, sharper than a bow, true power clasped between hands that now shook from nervous excitement. _Look, look,_ Finland wanted to scream at the king. _See how obedient I am? I slaughter your enemies for you without a second thought, Your Grace._ Now the hussars were well and truly amongst their ranks, reaching down with lethally long swords to pierce right through the Swedish soldiers.

'Charge!' He followed the line as it broke, grimacing through the fresh onslaught of blood and mud that splattered his face. But Finland was in his element now; he fired with unerring instinct, each bullet definite and decisive, his trained gaze sweeping over the battlefield with no mercy. Somewhere along the way he lost sight of Sweden. _Good. The guilt does not stab at me so now._

Yet Sweden was the first person he thought of, when, like the tug of some unholy force upon his heart, an all-too familiar flow of power revealed itself to Finland. This was not a connection he had felt for hundreds of years, when he met his fate and future in a snow-shrouded forest in the southern peninsulas of his homeland. He came to a standstill in the middle of the torn and bloody field. _I must reach this other nation, no matter what the cost._ Suddenly that seemed more important than anything to his addled mind, and Finland began to stumble his way through the ragged soil, the same latent power pulling him on and on. Had he been less single-minded in his purpose, he might have realised that the desire to lose control was arife within him, fuelling this deadened stumble. But Finland was aware only of the intoxicating pull that drew him away from his duty.

'Liet!' A shout sharpened his senses. Finland caught a glimpse of muddied blond hair, swinging forward into leaf-green eyes, a hand stretching out... and he hurled himself forward into the space, knocking over a Polish soldier. The tug was pulsing within his heart with terrifying speed. _I have found him._

' _Puola?_ ' he asked in his own language. It was met with a resentful stare. 'You are Poland.' Poland gave a non-committal jerk of the head, hands curling in the dirt. _I have been sent to take you prisoner,_ thought Finland, but the words never left his mouth. He put out a hand and helped Poland up with a curious clarity in his mind. The fingers clasped in his were surprisingly smooth and unmarred, with round manicured nails and coiled power nestling in the joints. He dropped them with a barely repressed shudder.

'I am to be captured, I suppose,' said Poland in accented Swedish. His tone was flat and resigned, as though he had been expecting this from the onset of the battle. 'Very well. I agree on one condition- that you let Liet go in exchange for me, if you mean to take him hostage as well.' The words tumbled out in a dull monotone, each of them striking a chord within Finland in entirely the wrong way. _No_ , he wanted to say. _No, this is wrong_. And it was. The injustice of it dug at him like a sly-toothed lion, slicing open those most vulnerable parts of his soul, sowing desperation in his soul where moments before there was only determination.

'I cannot,' he stammered. Poland turned to face him with reproach scrawled plain on his face- 'I cannot do this.' _For I too know how it feels to devote your life to freedom, to strive for it so much that it consumes everything you are. I too feel that heartbreaking need for control._ 'Go,' Finland breathed. His throat was tightening, clenching painfully. 'You must go.' Poland's eyes were wide and uncertain.

'I don't believe you.' His hand fluttered down to his sword hilt and grasped the leather-bound wood. Perhaps it was this gesture that finally broke Finland- or perhaps the mere misery of it all, the fatigue and sorrow that came with constant yearning- but he let his tenuous control slip away at last.

'I said go!' He shoved Poland in the shoulder, hard. 'Go!' The other man stumbled in the ground before he came to his senses, boots tearing away at the soil as he seized his lifeline in both hands. And it might have ended well then. The weight upon Finland's soul might have lifted a little, in the knowledge that he was dispensing liberty where none was given to him. But as he glanced over his shoulder, rifle raised to bring down the next foe, a pair of grief-shadowed blue eyes met his own. There was not only grief, but terrible hurt as well, and an innocent incredulity that brought Finland's conscience tumbling about his ears. _Be disappointed, then. Look upon your own dark creation._ He abandoned his rifle in place of the dagger at his belt- a smaller weapon, but truer than any work of fire and metal, an honest and quick way to do what must be done. So he reaved and sliced and stabbed far away from Sweden, to the other end of the battlefield, the terrible burden of that accusing gaze leaden upon his back. _I pray that you are satisfied now, Ruotsi._ The thought of that name sparked hot, fluid clouds of sorrow in his eyes. _But you never could control me, could you?_ The sword of freedom was a double-edged one. For with it came discipline, control, patience- and Finland had run dry upon all of those years ago. Now only bitterness was left for him. Bitterness, and ice-cold, merciless perseverance.

Though victory was theirs after that day, it did not seem to satisfy King Gustavus in the slightest. Youth had left him permanently, it seemed, and now premature lines of worry and indecision creased his countenance. But not once did he divulge his fears to Finland. _Nor to Sweden, though I would not know if he did._ Sweden... the very thought of him was as painful as a bed of nails. He was everywhere in the daytime: fighting upon the practice fields, dutiful as a draught horse; plying his craft at the archery butts; hunting for fresh supplies in the forests, everywhere Finland hoped not to see him and did. Only at night did his presence lessen. They still shared a tent- there was no other choice- yet Sweden had somehow gained the ability to be absent without anyone noticing, to float far away enough in his own mind that it made no difference if he remained on the earth. And not once did he remark on what Finland had done. _You swore to take one of them prisoner,_ his mind hissed to him at night. _And when you were given the opportunity, you flung it away like feathers on the wind._ After two weeks passed in this manner, all care was gone from him. If Sweden would not mention in it, then Finland vowed not to dwell upon the consequences. He knew his deed was right, in the eyes of unbound honour, and for now that was enough.

A rough hand shook him awake.

'What is it?' muttered Finland, alert at once from months spent anticipating an attack. Sweden's all-too familiar features peered over him.

'We're marching west. The scouts say the Polish army is approaching from the south.' Some small weak part of Finland made him reach up and grasp Sweden's arm. It withered away again when Sweden slipped away and out of the tent, out of his reach. _You fool. What hope is there left for you now?_

 **Northern Prussia/Poland, autumn 1626**

Less than an hour later, he found himself on the march again, striding alongside the survivours of the battle in Gdansk.

'Off to Prussia,' one man declared. 'He's leaving Lord Someone-or-other behind as Chancellor of these lands, whilst another half of us die trying to get some more.' Had Finland still sat upon the royal council, he could have attested how much truth lay in these statements for himself. But as it happened, he no longer held that honour, and so it was to rumours and his own common sense that he turned. That Lord Axel Oxenstierna was being appointed Chancellor of Vistula was a well-known fact amongst the camp. That seemed plain enough on the surface. But to the politically inclined mind- and his was now, had been hammered into such a shape over the centuries- there was far more to this appointment than met the eye. Finland pondered it over as he walked. Why would Gustavus, who had proven himself politically sound and reasoned in these past fifteen years, wish to part from the man who now held the honour of being his most trusted advisor? _Perhaps he means to make you beg._ The thought crept into Finland's mind like a dirty little parasite and would not leave _. To beg for his favour again, to be allowed into his councils. But never again free to stand against him._ He valued honour, valued it higher than most after witnessing years of betrayal and fraud. Yet honour was knowing your own mind as well, and being able to control it. Finland did not know if he could stoop to the levels of fealty Gustavus demanded. _Perhaps I place too high a price on my political autonomy, such as it is_. If so, then that was pride; sin, the Church called it; virtue, said soldiers and warriors. He could not define himself as either. So Finland shelved the issue, letting it fester and throb away at the base of his skull, bent his head, and continued upon the long road to nowhere.

Yet Sweden proved incapable of doing the same. Jealousy emanated from him in dull, dark waves, tempered by thorned guilt and the tiniest light of remorse. For his validation had been stolen from him, his wavering trust in his own ability, and in doing so King Gustavus had dealt a crushing blow to his former most trusted advisor. _And I feel it, in every second of every day. I feel his pain as though it is my own_. It would always be with him: the long, silent days, punctuated only by occasional showerings of rain, and a spiralling sensation of panic that they would never reach their enigmatic destination. The canvas roof of their tent was soon permanently damp. It was the tent, somehow, that lit the spark of an idea in Finland's mind. He was watching idly as Sweden attempted to raise the pale cloth walls, struggling with ropes and poles whilst his pride prohibited him from asking for help. At last it stood upright, teetering in the wind- then the entire thing came crashing down with a clash of wood. Finland pinched off a bitter smile with two fingers. There was no humour in this, no true humour at least. He stepped forward to take on the job himself, patience frayed from the creeping chill of a Prussian autumn.

'I should have asked for help,' mumbled Sweden once the damned thing was up again, folding his arms.

'Perhaps.' _Oh, but definitely. That is your greatest shortcoming, I fear._ And then it struck him. They would progress no further, would shed no new light on this quagmire of a journey, unless some action was taken in the matter of Gustavus. Ignoring the past weeks of awkward silences, Finland put out a hand and pulled Sweden behind him into the dim dampness of the tent. Bewilderment was scrawled across Sweden's face; he ignored that too. There were more important issues at hand than unresolved petty quarrels.

'What-'

'The king. When was the last time you spoke with him?' he said brusquely, wasting no time.

'Not since we left Poland,' Sweden muttered. His head dropped onto his chest in shame. Finland let a frustrated burst of air out from between his pursed lips, willing himself not to lose focus. _This is my only chance. I must remember that._

'This endless march will spell the diminishing of the Swedish Empire, if you do not confront Gustavus soon.'

'Me?' The bewilderment returned with more than a hint of panic behind it.

'You, Berwald.' Finland's eyes were wide and serious beneath fatigue-shadowed lids. 'You are the one he must trust if we are to have a clear purpose once again. You are the one who must be his closest advisor, his closest confidante, his first thought in every trouble and dilemma. _You_ , Ruotsi.'

'But... but- I can't, Fin. I don't understand.' Finland bit back a sigh of irritation.

'What don't you-'

'I used to know what I fought for,' said Sweden, a sudden candid tone to his voice. 'I used to know what it meant to be loyal and dutiful, and I took pride in that. More pride even than in my own freedom.' He caught Finland's gaze and held it, tight. 'Now I do not know where my duty should lie. And so I can do nothing; we have been cursed and blessed with eternal lives, and I do not intend to spend mine dishonourably.'

'Then find your honour,' whispered Finland. This heartfelt outburst had touched him, down in the dark pit where his own shredded moral code lay, along with all the torn-up, spat-out ragged memories of Denmark and Norway. 'It lies in king and country, as it has always done.' But Sweden shook his head.

'King and country are no longer bound,' he said ruefully. 'Gustavus wants his cousin's kingdom, wants the empire his father and grandfather dreamt of, everything we have dreamt of since we became free from Denmark.'

'And you? What differs between the king and country of Sweden?' At once, as though something shameful had been said, Sweden's eyes fell away from Finland to the damp floor.

'I want... I want you to be happy, Fin,' he rasped, throat choked up with some hidden emotion. 'You've had so much taken from you, and- I suppose I want to give it back.' Something warm stung Finland's eyes; he smiled, sniffed, blinked it away and shook his head. _Then why can't you?_ The question seemed almost too cold after what he had just heard. 'But my land-' He was doing his best to make Finland understand, but it was too little, too late- '-you know how it is. The pull is too strong, especially now that my people are on the rise to greatness.'

'Then what will you do?'

'Wait, if you can wait. Wait for the world to become a fairer place, so that we might stand as equals some day.' _And I will do so, though my every instinct screams out against it._ There was beauty in curses, and a curse such as this one Finland would bear willingly. He forced himself to remain focused.

'Then it is more important than ever that you speak to the king! Nothing should stop you now, Ruotsi.' Finland had tried- he knew he had, knew that every ounce of his persuasive tact and subtle begging had gone into this. But only Sweden could decide what the ultimate ending to this tale would be. He reached out for Sweden's hand and grasped it between both of his own, praying that wisdom would prevail.

'He will want my forgiveness and utter loyalty.'

'Of course he will-' Dull blue eyes cut him off with a jolt of solemnity.

'I cannot stoop so low, Tino. I made a promise. I swore that we would never again have to bow to someone else's orders, live under someone else's rule. And I intend to hold true to that promise.' He might have slapped Sweden then, were it not for the guilty gratitude coursing through his veins. The decades-old puzzle was coming together at last- and Finland had found himself in exactly the wrong place to assemble it. _I wanted your love, your trust, more than anything. But not like this. Not at the expense of all else._ Speech failed him. His mouth opened and closed, gaping wide like a dumbstruck fish as he struggled desperately to find the words to convince Sweden. 'I am sorry.' That did it. Finland stood abruptly, tears hot and painful in his eyes, and stepped out into the velvet-dark frosted night air. He bowed his head. Silence.

As he stood out his vigil, the stars appeared few by few like tiny twinkling witnesses, as though to remind Finland of all the light he had lost. His land, his people, snow-coated serenity- he had given it all up for the hope of something bigger and better, the route to power that his country needed so terribly. _But it never works in the end, does it?_ he thought bitterly. _I put my fate into the hands of a greater power, and all that I received from it was empty oaths and centuries of waiting._ An owl called out high in the sky, its melancholy hoot sending a curious chill rushing down Finland's spine. He let out a long breath. It was time.

The land around King Gustavus' tent was well-patrolled, and at first Finland could do little more than crouch in a nearby shrub and wait. The wind shrieked and keened in his ears, but he ignored, straining only to hear the low hum of voices from outside the blue silk pavillion. Four guards stood outside the half-open flap, with crossed spears and the king's own household badge embroidered upon their livery. Their muttered Swedish was only just audible.

'...begin to march soon,' said one, casting weary eyes to the clouds. 'It's been long enough.' There were murmurs of assent from his companions, and some short jest that Finland did not catch. He shifted closer until the tent came into view.

'Shift's nearly over,' put in another. 'If we leave now, there'll be time for a flagon of ale before the watch commander comes looking.' His suggestion was met with general enthusiasm, and to Finland's utter relief, the four of them set off down the hill. That left the king's tent unguarded. _Now_ , he told himself, and leapt forwards.

Gustavus sat at a low desk with his back to the door, scribbling something down onto a piece of parchment. He dribbled candle wax onto the envelope, pressed his seal ring into it to make a mark, then turned around with an expression of utmost aplomb on his face.

'Yes? Can I help you?' For a moment Finland could do nothing but stare. He hovered in the makeshift doorway uncertainly, with the distinct creeping feeling that he had walked right into the king's trap. 'I thought this might happen,' continued Gustavus when there was no answer. 'You are a determined one, my friend, and it was only a matter of time before you confronted me. Please, sit.' Finland sank into the proffered camp stool, mind still whirring furiously. _He knows, he knows, he knows, oh gods-_

'What- what is happening?' he managed to stammer out at last. The king raised a poised eyebrow. Finland collected together his ragged composure and began again. 'What I mean to say is- we have not moved camp in two weeks, Your Grace. We linger here in Prussia, waiting, whilst all the good that came from out victory in Poland fades away-'

'I can assure you, all of this kingdom's business in Poland is taken care of. You need not worry about that.'

'But the Prussian affair-'

'Ah, yes, the "Prussian affair", as you so gracefully put it. But this is no longer a time for diplomacy and tact, leastways not amongst allies and friends.' Gustavus shifted closer, his features suddenly narrowed with gravitas. 'First I must ask you to do that which you have done so many times before, and promise me something.' Finland said nothing, past memories of such promises flooding his mind. _There had better be truth in this one, or we are lost_. 'You will not tell Berwald of anything that is said in this pavillion today. I did a great blow to his purpose when I dismissed you both, I fear, and for him to hear what I am about to tell you would only damage it further.'

'That is true enough,' muttered Finland. He accepted the cup of wine that was offered to him, but only sipped at it, wanting his head to be clear for this next part.

'This Danish alliance... King Christian is a brilliant soldier, a battle-hardened man with a military mind and years of solid experience. The only thing he lacks is numbers. Yes, there are mercenaries, but foreign soldiers will never stay true to a kingdom that is not their own. The only way out of this war for him is surrender or defeat.'

'He will never surrender. And you swore to aid him in both victory and defeat...' Finland's voice tailed away as he realised the terrible depth of their problem. 'You do not mean to support Denmark any longer.' Gustavus gave a wolfish smile, running one hand through prematurely grey hair. The dancing light of the candles highlighted and accentuated the weary planes of his face.

'My country, stood alone, could do great things in this European conflict,' he said, confirming the statement in his customary roundabout way. 'I need only wait for Christian to fall to some greater power, then I can move in and collect the spoils. After that- the war has awaited us for long enough now.' It was cunning, treacherous, clever without the weight of morals on top- and it worked. _If only you were here now, Sve,_ thought Finland with grim satisfaction. _This is how your kingdom will become an empire- through tactical patience and well-placed knives at the right throats._

'Is there anything we might do to hasten Denmark's exit?' he asked quietly. The whole soft subtlety of it thrilled Finland, invigorated him beyond description, better than any blood-soaked battle or hard-won fight.

'Wait.' The word fell from Gustavus' lips with beautiful simplicity. 'Reinforce control over Poland, keep our troops fresh and ready, and wait for Denmark to fall. It will not be long now; they are too weak to call upon our help, and it is unlikely other kingdoms would grudge us for such a manoeuvre.' Finland smiled, draining the rest of his wine in a silent toast to Sweden's new dawn of power. Sweden- _Ruotsi is Sweden, the one I loved once, and still do... what have I done?_ Cold, clammy hands clutched around his heart. He could still salvage this. He could still make things work.

'And what of Berwald?' asked Finland. A shadow swept over the king's face. _So we are alike in our regrets, Your Grace._

'I made a terrible mistake in alienating him,' said Gustavus solemnly. 'He is honourable to a fault, and betrayal will never be a good thing in his eyes, but he has that which I deem most important- loyalty. I would not cast aside such a close friend and advisor, not as readily as it might have seemed.' He straightened in his seat, the rueful smile returning. 'But there is little I can do now. Perhaps victory in this European war will reconcile us, perhaps not. I can only hope.'

'As do I, Your Grace.' _I hope for far more than you could know._ He did not speak those last words aloud. Some things were better left unsaid, even to a king.

 **Stockholm, September 1629**

In the end, things did not go half as smoothly as Gustavus had hoped. The Polish king Sigismund rallied his troops again and launched an attack on Vistula, meaning that the main army had to retreat back and aid their countrymen, whilst more southern conflicts raged on throughout the rest of Europe. A stroke of terrible fate meant that they were separated from trade routes to Sweden, so fresh supplies could not reach the army. Finland would come to remember those frantic few months and years as a dark blur of time. Resources and morale alike were low, and he knew many nights crouched in a camp tent with the king and Sweden as they searched for some reprieve from their predicament. Three years- three long, hard years of fighting, crouched in northern Prussia whilst they waited for news of Denmark's fall and staved off Poland's various attacks- three years after which Finland was all to relieved when they were offered the lucrative Treaty of Altmark. The majority of their lands in Vistula were kept, as were a few coastal cities in the Holy Roman Empire. But these were mere trifles when compared with the main prize. For Denmark, in all its frustrating hardiness, its sheer power of will, had finally accepted a treaty of their own. Both kingdoms were free at last from the weight of war.

 _But not for long,_ thought Finland as he stood atop the familiar battlements of Gustavus' winter fortress in Stockholm. It seemed to him that all conflicts these days were ended with feeble truces and uncertain treaties, flimsy pieces of paper that were signed and documented and filed and forgotten after a few short decades. _Eradicate your opponent, and then there is a clear victor._ That was the best way to ensure that rebellion would not continue to plague a land. But this one, their parley in Altmark, served a higher, darker purpose. The true dawn of the Swedish Empire. _I have lied, fought, murdered, betrayed, all so that this day might come._ Finland knew he had given everything for this. He regretted none of it, not even the rift it tore between him and Sweden. _Because I did it to bring us closer, and perhaps that will come true once the clouds of war have lifted_. But now- now to battle, and death, and glory. Now was his time.

 **Thanks for reading!**


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: I know, this is a whole month late! School and life in general have really been getting to me recently, so this chapter took a long time to write, but at least it's done now :) thank you to everyone who has followed, favourited and reviewed, your support has kept me going for the past month! I'm going away for Christmas so it's likely there won't be another update for the next couple of weeks, but after that we should be back to weekly updates :) Enjoy!**

 _He ducks and weaves like an entity of pure water, his narrow frame darting in and out of reach of the Prussian's sword, dancing with death as one might with an old friend. And indeed death is no stranger to Norway- he has dealt it out countless times himself, has witnessed its strangling effect on thousands of people and let it all pass him by. Yet never before has he thought to face it directly like this. It is disconcerting to say the least. A sense of lightness, almost holiness, hangs over Norway, and it lends strength to his blade, allowing him to parry attacks with instinct faster than the eye can follow._ Almost as though I do not breathe, as though the laws of this land have no grasp upon me. _He leaps forward- and as he does so, one thought pierces through the veil of his concentration and blurs out the rest of the world._ Your life for theirs. Your death for their freedom. _Norway lands the blow, but in his hesitation he allows Prussia a precious second to parry it. And then he knows what must be done. Winning seems feeble, even pathetic now, a thought of lesser beings. He had sprung from the earth. To the earth he will now return, and set right to the world once more._ The sacrifice. _Norway does not feel the knife slipping from his hand, does not hear Denmark's strangled cry of horror from behind him. All that matters is the white-hot, cleansing flash through his body- then darkness. He had succeeded._

 **Copenhagen, 1626, winter**

The first thing Norway remembered of his new life was the flowers. Their scent stirred memories within him, memories of times long gone by, when the world was a brighter place. For all he knew now was cold. Cold hands, cold heart, a cold countenance to match the rapidly descending Copenhagen snows. Even the lilies that refused to wither beneath his touch seemed frosty somehow. Norway picked one up, twirling its thick stem beneath his fingers and inhaling the sweet, heady aroma of nectar. A day and a night- that was how long he had lain here, in a death-like sleep upon blossom-carpeted marble. _My tomb. And now my home, of a sort._ Denmark was softer, more cautious and mellow with his love these days, and Norway had made the most of that since he awoke. But once in a while, an old sharpness cried out from within his soul, and he would find himself here, in a room full of drooping flowers and ice-illusioned windows.

'Norway.' A gentle voice pulled him from his reverie. Norway let the flower fall, turning to see Denmark's tall form silhouetted in the doorway. Tenderness enveloped him- and yet it was muted, as though winter's swift arrival had managed to muffle the very beats of his heart. _Remember this, remember him. Remember what it felt like to love._ 'I thought I might find you here,' continued Denmark, stepping closer. The tip-tap of his boots was loud, even intrusive, sending cracks spiralling through Norway's icy composure.

'What is it?' The words fell harshly from his tongue, and he gave a small smile to soften the blow.

'News from our scouts in Germany. They say King Gustavus has mustered his forces in Hamburg and sailed back to Stockholm, from where he intends to launch an attack against Poland.' Norway was relieved to find that at least his unerring military instinct had not left him.

'The Polish war is trapping them,' he deduced at once. 'Our alliance with Sweden weakens Gustavus more each day, and so he seeks to find a way out of it as soon as he can. This invasion of Poland is merely a settling of affairs- the so-called calm before the storm.' Denmark listened in stern silence, nodding every so often. He assumed the briefest of smiles once Norway had finished.

'You think we should let them leave.' It was a statement, not a question.

'Undoubtedly. Our two kingdoms could never exist for so long in peace, and we were hindering each other's separate desires all the same. No, this is better.' _Better to leave a brother behind? Better to forget those who were once dear to us?_ Norway had cut Finland and Sweden from his heart with little remorse- only crushing regret and sorrow- but he knew it was the right thing to do in the end. _Every day, I slip away from Denmark and Iceland an inch more. In doing this, will I lose them forever?_ Norway had a part of utmost importance to play. He had to be steel-forged negotiator, conciliatory brother, generous lover, all at once. _When it is over, no one will be able to deny that I did what was expected at me. They cannot take that away._

'The end of the end, then?' Denmark put out a hand to him, and he took it, absurdly grateful for the gesture.

'I suppose it is.'

 **1629, Lübeck (HRE), winter**

Their grand denouement took a full three years to come about. Three years of playing the same worn-out parts, of fighting in battles that meant nothing, of sitting upon council meetings and pretending that they meant something more than a means to an end. Once, Norway might have found an amusing irony in the situation, might have sat back and mocked it with his cold immortal air. But it seemed as though something had been taken from him the day he fell beneath Prussia's sword. There was an edge lacking to him, a missing sharpness that he had not realised until it was gone, and he mourned its loss as one might a distant relative's; sympathetic, morose, and with an unfounded and deep sense of sorrow. _My humanity has been shaken loose, such as it is._ Bland apathy reigned within him these days. Norway had never truly considered himself human, and he did even less so now. It was no longer in him to care for the endless ranks of mortals sent to die at the order of their king, nor the people that perished in cold and pain when their country could no longer keep them safe. And yet Norway remembered what that had felt like. What it meant to cup the fates and lives of dozens in his hands, to protect them with his own towering immortality, to shield a nation and take pride in his eternal duty. _It is beyond a veil, somehow..._ he caught glimpses of his past life every so often, like snippets of a fading dream, sent through occasional bursts of warmth and tenderness. But there were only two people that Norway lived for now- two people who would never leave him, no matter what troubles the cruel wind of time brought.

His mind was sheltering in some cold, bright refuge of the north when the news arrived from Prague. Norway tore his thoughts away from the stars, from a better time, and turned to face his final hurdle. A messenger in bloodied crimson livery knelt before him upon grass that was damp with morning dew. A sparrow squawked in a nearby hedge; a flag fluttered feebly, then fell still and silent. _Hardly a dramatic setting for the downfall of Denmark-Norway,_ he mused.

'Yes?'

'A message from the Holy Roman Emperor, my lord.' Norway's teeth ground against each other, those two small words pricking at his ears. _I am no lord_. But that meant nothing now, so he shook off his irritation and returned to the matter at hand. 'He demands that His Grace King Christian meet with him in the city of Lübeck, where terms for Denmark's exit from this conflict shall be discussed. The party leaves tomorrow at dawn.' The messenger stood and bowed, his duty done. Norway dismissed him with a wave of the hand. Yet inside, his heart was beating unerringly fast, and a cold sweat had broken out across the pale expanse of his skin. Terms. A treaty. Their way out. A tiny pool of relief curled within him as he pictured Iceland's bright face, so scarcely seen during these past years, and Norway reflected that at least their brave little family would be reunited at last. _Then what is it that I fear?_ Not defeat- not when in this instance it had been better for all. No, Norway could not explain the tremor in his hands as he stalked back through the camp, nor could he provide any reason for the sudden freeze that occupied his mind. _But the cycle continues, the wheel spins on and on, and one day we shall all be back here again- a different ruler, a different time- but the same worn-out principles of war and justice._ Rarely did the centuries make their weight felt as they did then. And he felt them keenly, closely, with all the dying light of his humanity.

'What are your terms?' ground out King Christian from between audibly clenched teeth. This war had changed him, aged him where before he had seemed indomitable, and grey and white clusters crept up his close-cropped beard like the cold breath of winter. 'I do not wish to waste time over trifles and petty quarrels.'

'Of course not, my lord. We intend for these negotiations to run as smoothly and efficiently as possible.' Emperor Ferdinand's chief negotiator was a sly, perfumed character, with the slimy air of one who excelled at his job and felt no shame in exploiting it. Norway eyed him with dislike. _I shall have to watch that one. We are at a disadvantage here, and he knows it all too well._ Denmark beside him was not nearly so focused, twirling a feather pen in his hand as he let his eyes stray towards the bolted and shuttered window. The air in the Lübeck manor was stuffy and close; no doubt he was dreaming of snow, and home.

'Very well,' said the king. 'I believe you shall find my desires simple. His Imperial Majesty is to compensate Denmark-Norway for losses suffered in this conflict, and grant all our holdings and lands in Prussia religious and political freedom from the rest of the country. They are to remain under my governance, not that of the emperor. Any occupied provinces are to be surrendered and vacated with immediate effect.' He leaned back in his seat, brusque tones fading into the humid air. Norway knew how Christian liked to operate. He came across as cold and abrupt to all, but indefatigable in his purpose, and with an iron sense of justice that was respected by even his enemies. But this German courtier, this man of minced words and tangled rumours- _somehow I doubt very much that he will understand. He sees a barbarian, a Viking, not a king who is doing what he believes is best for his people._

'As His Imperial Majesty expected,' said the German ambassador in his smooth voice, and a flash of irritation lit up the king's eyes. 'Your terms are understandable, Your Grace, if perhaps a little overreaching.' He gave an almost pitying smile. 'You have lost this war- you do not have the power to negotiate such a balanced treaty.' It was then that Norway knew this meeting was just one of many, the first in a long line of debates and disputes that meant very little overall. He suppressed a sigh, glancing at Denmark under the pretence of pushing back his hair. _What will we do?_ cried out their shared glance. And for once, Norway could not see a safe way out.

'Gods, when will this blasted thing end?' Denmark stormed up and down the cell-like box that was their room, fists clenched white and trembling with frustration. Norway, perched idly in the window seat with a pile of documents he was supposed to be reading, did not reply for a long moment. The night was silent and still, with no sound to be heard but the occasional strangled mew of a stray cat. No howling wolves to be heard here, no raucous voices lifted in song; Lübeck was very much a grand merchant's city.

'That depends upon when we want it to end,' Norway said slowly at last. He scratched a line out with his quill, quelled a shout of frustration when the nib folded and crumpled, then flung open the shutters to let in some air. A meek night breeze crept into the room, bleeding into the previous heavy warmth that had lingered for so long. 'The Riksråd are shut up in some gold-plastered Copenhagen haunt; we are Christian's only major advisors and negotiators in this city. And all three of us would like nothing better than to be done with the whole wretched business.' He stood, willing serenity to enter and calm his swirling thoughts. _We need strength now, but tact as well. And it is a patient one who will teach Denmark that subtle art._

'Then why not end it? We can start again, build anew. This treaty will mean nothing in ten years or so.' Denmark folded his arms and gave a little nod. This had ever been his way- to find the fastest solution, damned to hell be its true outcome, and apply it before matters grew too dull for his liking. _I have taught him some small diplomacy over the years,_ thought Norway, eyes resting upon the face of his oldest and dearest ally. _But he must learn to be diplomatic when I am not there to guide him along._ That thought startled him, and he shook it aside like a dog shaking itself dry. Never before had Norway considered the possibility that one day they might be separated. Cold dread pierced his heart.

'You forget the longevity of reputation,' he said, willing himself to be iron, steel, pure diamond. 'Make a mess of this one treaty, and we shall ever be known as pliable and weak. It matters for us- we will be here to face the consequences, with a new age and a new king to kneel to.' Denmark gave another nod, though his eyes were narrowed in apparent suspicion.

'Then what do you suggest?'

'I do not wish to spend longer than a month in this city,' Norway began, tones carefully soft and slow. He wanted to nudge Denmark into making a decision, not send him sprawling in irritation. 'But I cannot speed negotiations along enough to make much of a difference...' His words tailed off tantalisingly, and a sudden light sparked in Denmark's eyes.

'I will speak with the king,' he said. Norway gave a small nod of satisfaction. Denmark lent himself uncannily well to being played like a fiddle at the best of times. _Get me the validation I need, and I shall take it from there._ He bestowed his favourite grin upon Denmark- the secretive, cold one, the smile that hinted at deception and trickery- the grin that Denmark always fell as willing prey to. _Soon_ , he promised himself. _Soon, we will be free of this wretched place, and I will no longer need to mould his mind like that._

Norway had expected to feel anticipation, even nervousness, when he sat down to face the next day of negotiations. What he had not expected was guilt. Denmark shot him a wide beam, his natural charm and charisma shining through more brightly than usual upon that frigid winter's morning. And Norway wondered suddenly- how could he do this? How could he manipulate and scheme and plot with no weight whatsoever upon his conscience? _Especially when it is out of his knowledge. He smiles at me, so trusting, so loving, but he does not know the truth of what I have become._ There was ice in his soul, and cold indifference in his heart. But neither of those things were worse than the shadowed memory of love Norway could feel pooling beneath his skin. No more than a memory.

He supposed he lived for freedom now, in the same way that oppressed commoners and worn-down peasant farmers prayed for a better future. Which was why Norway felt nothing but relief when the treaty was finally decided, signatures formed and ink dry, a dribble of red wax holding the whole damn thing shut. A small sigh escaped his lips. To his left King Christian was a study in contempt, ogling Ferdinand's perfumed vassal with nothing short of hatred reflected in the slate-grey surface of his eyes. Norway understood his feelings well enough. Most kings received but one chance at greatness, mortal as they were, and this one had been Christian's. But their recent defeat had rendered his kingdom powerless, even useless. What stung even worse was that the crown of Nordic kingpin had passed to Gustavus Adolphus and his Swedes, a newer, younger set of challengers in this game of war that they had been playing for so long. _A great king in his time, yet brought low by the unforgiving fists of time._ Time would make ghosts of them all; but not him, not Denmark. They would endure for as long as there was something left for them to protect upon this godforsaken earth.

Now Denmark smiled broadly, nodding to the German ambassador in dismissal as he attempted to dissipate some of the tension in the room.

'Well, at least it's done!' he exclaimed in forcedly cheerful tones. King Christian shot him a withering look.

'We are politically and martially stranded, stripped of land, power and titles, and you have the audacity to declare that "it is done" with a smile upon your face? I may be king, but you shall suffer the consequences of this mess far longer than I. Do not forget that.' He nodded with customary brusqueness at Norway, then swept from the room, travel-stained black cloak whipping out behind him like a shroud of palpable despair.

'Poorly done,' Norway muttered as he turned away to the window. He could sense Denmark's rage, smouldering out from him like some fiery beast just awoken, and resolved to remain calm.

'And what of it?' Denmark's tone was defensive, if a little subdued. 'We lose nothing except land- and when has land been more important than money and other riches?'

'Land.' The word fell limply from Norway's lips. His hands were shaking, mouth curving with contempt and mind hardening into a shell of ice-tinged anger. _Truly, sometimes the words he speaks have less merit than the dirt upon the sole of my boot_. 'Land is everything. I thought you might have realised that, what with the broken kingdom you've been pretending is whole for so long!'

'Nor.' Bewilderment crossed Denmark's face- and perhaps there was a little hurt in him as well. 'What is it-'

'You speak of things you could never understand,' hissed Norway. His composure had deserted him, had turned to bitter fire faster than he cared to note in that tension-filled moment. But Denmark never would understand the terror fuelling his sudden rage. _He does not know what it is like to stand for a country that is falling apart around your feet, to be owned and bought and sold in the name of mere power._ He had faced hard times, yes- Kalmar and this recent war were two such examples- but never before had Denmark truly had cause to fear for the dissolution of his own land. Norway, though- Norway could imagine nothing worse than being stolen away by stronger nations, pieces carved away and conquered, ripped to shreds like a scrap thrown to starving wolves. _And I have Iceland to protect on top of it all. The brother I never asked for, but the brother I loved and protected more than I ever could have done for my own life and country._ 'I pray that you will let this matter slide before some greater evil can come and consume us both for good.' He stalked from the room in a fit of trembling vexation, two points of crimson burning high up on his face. Norway knew he could not afford to lose his temper again. Not when the stakes were so delicately and devilishly placed. _Stupid_ , he berated himself. _I must hold on to all I have left with twice the strength._ But love had ever been a fickle and ferocious beast. And it tore away at all his overlapping loyalties more than ever now.

 **Copenhagen, 1629, winter**

The road back to Copenhagen was a short one, hastened by the shame of defeat and the merciless winter winds that whipped their depleted column of soldiers along ice-caked paths. _Let it end for good this time,_ Norway prayed as they meandered on. _Let us remember the meaning of peace for once._ The old him might have known what it meant- the old him still carried hope, still chased after dreams that he knew now were worthless. But the old Norway was dead, and his replacement little more than a world-weary, beaten-down soldier. A machine built for war. And like all machines, he would keep going until there was nothing left to fuel his strength.

A tiny, pale-headed figure awaited them at the gates of their city mansion, draped in midnight blue and with a regal bearing that Norway scarcely recognised. But he knew the shout of 'Noregur!' well enough, as did he know the scurrying scramble of his brother's feet upon the snow and the broad smile splitting his face. Iceland hurled himself into Norway's arms before he had time to dismount his horse, a veritable whirlwind of light and dark.

'I missed you,' he mumbled in his high child's voice. 'You were gone for so _long_ , Nor.' Something icy grazed at Norway's heart. He forced himself to smile, pushing away the sudden throbbing pain in his chest.

'I'm back now,' he said, the words sounding limp and feeble even as he said them. Iceland's attention was already elsewhere.

'Ice!' called out Denmark in jubilant tones, swinging down from his horse to sweep up Iceland in strong arms. Norway watched them, a lump rising in his throat, and he was seized by a sudden urge to storm off and howl out his sorrow in some desolate and wild northern forest. _Damn you,_ he thought with resentment. _What is wrong with me? I look into my brother's face, see hope and joy and bliss, yet all I feel is dread._ He had ever been a creature of sharp, cold pieces, able to strike down his enemies with the mere chill of his mind- but also to revel in doing so, to take pleasure in the machinations of the mind. Something of that intricate puzzle had been shaken loose. Denmark's arm looped around his shoulders, drawing him into the warmth of reunion and out of that nest of disturbing thoughts.

'What's wrong?' He was smiling, but his voice was low, out of Iceland's earshot. _I have to tell him._ A chink of light cracked through Norway's smothering darkness; for the thousandth time, he thanked whatever gods existed that someone so bright and cheerful as Denmark could see through his aura of despair at the best of times. _He has had his dark moments as well, and he has come out of them shining more fiercely than ever. I must learn to do the same._ Norway opened his mouth. The words were there, clamouring to be let out, beating a dull drum of insistence into his skull that would not let go. Endless wars, so many lives snuffed out whilst they endured for eternity. Cold command and colder winters, winters of sorrow and despondence, a shrieking chain of ice that wound itself about Norway more and more with each passing day. And last- last and most terrible of all- how love and care and hope had slipped from between his fingers to lie lost in some shadowed cavern of his mind. Slowly, he lifted his heavy gaze to meet Denmark's concerned one. _Later_ , that flash of sapphire seemed to say.

'Nothing's wrong,' Norway replied. And he smiled, though it was a broken thing.

That night song and music reigned through the huge old house, transforming it into a place of light and joy where for three years it had stood near silent. It had been Iceland who insisted that they celebrate; to him, defeat in war was a far-off, hazy thing, and what mattered more was the people who came back home again. To Norway, clouded and miserably confused as his current state of mind was, that philosophy could not have seemed more sensible. _Tonight, we celebrate the living._ And so far he had done his best to honour that pledge. The three of them had shut themselves away in the echoing old library with several casks of wine and enough untold stories to last a thousand nights. Denmark was jubilant, beaming, Iceland spilling over with joy at the release of his three-year-long wait for this day to come. Nothing should have been able to ruin that most charmed of nights for them. Yet for Norway something sour and sinister hung upon the air. Every sip of wine he took was bitter somehow, and every laugh or word uttered by the other two was another nail in the already cramped hell of his head. Norway blinked; a film of hot tears washed across his line of sight. _What is wrong with me?_ He wanted to leap up and scream- no, he needed more wine, needed to drown his terror in something smaller- needed to find clean, empty air and surround himself in sound. Too hot, (he felt fevered again, drowsy and drowning) too cold (ice grazed his skin, snow piled up around him in smothering drifts and he screamed-).

'Lukas.' It was rare that Iceland used his human name, and so Norway peered up out of his stupor for a moment. 'Is it true?'

'Is what true?' he mumbled, pushing himself upright. A glass of wine teetered dangerously from his hand, and through the hazy heat of the room he could see Denmark, gazing over at him with barely concealed despondency on his face.

'That you cut down twenty Germans yourself in the last battle?' For a moment irritation sliced through his delirium, and he shot an angry glance towards Denmark- his little brother should not be hearing such things.

'Of course it's true,' Norway said. He took a sip of the wine, grimacing when it fell lukewarm upon his tongue. 'It doesn't change that we lost, though.' He could not help but avert his eyes when Iceland's face fell in disappointment. _Forgive me, little brother. You will understand one day._ To preserve his innocence forever was impossible. Best to tell him harsh truths now rather than later, prepare him for the cruelties of the outside world. Denmark's eyes were contemplative and sorrowful as he stood, casting a knowing glance over to Norway before he turned back to Iceland.

'It's late, Ice, and we'll have plenty of time to talk tomorrow. You should be in bed now.' It was a weak excuse for some privacy, and Norway almost resented Iceland's obedience as he watched his brother nod and skip off out of the room. The door closed behind him with the softest of clicks. A cold sweat had broken out across Norway's skin, though what he feared was nothing that could be seen. _Fear is vulnerability_ , he told himself, _and with vulnerability there is no chance that I will come back from this living nightmare._

'Tell me,' said Denmark. His voice was soft, even hurt. 'Something isn't right, Nor. I need to know why.' _I don't know either!_ Norway wanted to shout. _I am breaking inside, losing myself, and I cannot tell you why._ He lifted sudden tear-filled eyes- eyes that had weathered watching the weight of time, eyes that had seen sorrow and wonder and terror and beauty- dark sapphire-night eyes that now locked onto their paler, brighter counterparts as they had done so many times before.

'I don't know,' he said at last. 'I don't know.' Denmark drew in a deep breath, face closing off and becoming a blank mask of resignation. He took a step back- _leaving me, letting me go, giving me up._ Norway wanted to reach out to him, to hold him and make him stay so that this terrible wound would be healed. But his limbs remained locked in place by fear-fuelled indecision. He could do nothing but watch as Denmark left the room, closing the door behind him with a slam that was bitterly redolent of finality. Something had come to an end; what it was, Norway found himself at a loss to pinpoint. He let the last dregs of wine dribble into his glass and drained them. The alcohol was tart and cloying upon his tongue, but he savoured it, letting a familiar cloud of intoxication overwhelm him. Voices echoed from through the wall. He heard his name spoken, heard a brisk reprimand followed by a silence heavy with unsaid words. Norway turned over his glass and let his eyes fall shut. _So this is my fate,_ he thought against the terrible pounding of his head. _Madness. A heart of ice and a world that no longer means anything to me._ He slept then, carried off by too much wine and an aching soul, the weight of his sacrifice never more burdensome or meaningless than in that moment.

Norway came to with the clock's booming chimes ringing about his head. He stretched, lethargic and tensed, a piercing prickle chasing through his body. The unmistakable aroma of wine hung on the air, reminding him all too acutely of the vice-like pressure upon his skull. Clearly, he had drunk too much; the mead-filled Viking days were wearing off at last. It was only then that he realised that candles and fire alike were extinguished- the only light was that of the moon, silver and fragile, casting pale streaks across the library's carpeted floors. Norway's head spun as he stood and ambled over to the window. There, looking out over a midnight world of frost and snow, the numbing pain he had felt for so long seemed to almost fade away. _From shadows and snow and ice I came, and perhaps only there can I be at peace with myself again_. He shook his head with a rueful smile, gazing up at the moon as though there was wisdom to be found in its sharp creamy curve. No Northern Lights here- they belonged in the true and wild north, those places of utmost secrecy that Norway himself had fallen to protect- and a gasp was wrenched from him as the fatigue-smothered events of last night came rushing back. It was the sky that did it, the expanse of silver-spangled navy that shifted his mind's focus back to roots and family. _Denmark let me go. He stepped away, and set me free._ For years he had dreamt of freedom, yearned for it with every bone in his body whilst still being able to maintain an equilibrium between his political and personal desires. Yet now, Denmark had as good as offered it up to him on a silver platter. _He was the only thing keeping me in this court of rumours and lies- him and his damned beautiful cheer._

He had to make a choice. That much was obvious, as far as Norway's wretched and oh-so-exhausted brain could make out. The only thing that remained was to choose, and soon. Would it be northern wastelands and thickets of fog-wreathed trees, giant-high drifts of snow and gaping, inexorably wide freedom? Or the home and family that he had loved for so long and so deeply? _No. Not now._ He tore himself away from the window, heart racing with the sudden need to validate this most terrible and soul-wrenching chapter of his life. _I need them. I need to remember._ Norway's fingers wove and unwove around themselves as he paced down the hallway to Iceland's room. The door hung slightly ajar when he arrived- an invitation, perhaps. But he could not have felt more alienated from the scene that awaited him just a few short steps away. Iceland was curled into a small ball under his winter fur blankets, the mingling black and white feathers of his puffin just visible in the flickering candlelight. Beside him, fingers splayed across the pages of an open book, was sprawled Denmark. His mouth hung slack, and occasionally his eyelids fluttered as though disturbed, but Norway could not mistake the aura of peace that hung over him, a peace that could not and did not exist in waking hours. _It is me,_ he knew. _I have heaved all my petty problems onto his shoulders without so much as a second thought._ He would dearly have loved to dismiss the thought as soon as it came- Denmark would have done so, without a doubt- but to Norway there was an element of truth in it that could not be denied. _Remember that you love them._ The memory of it was there, alive, beating frantically against the ice-sharp cage of his terror, but all warmth and feeling had fled from Norway now. He made sure to imprint their faces into his mind before leaving for the last time.

The silver buttons on Norway's cloak absorbed and reflected the moon's milky light, so he was bathed in silver beams as he made his slow way through the grounds of the ancient manor house. Changes had been made to the house itself as time passed, in order to maintain the fashions of the time, but never so the garden. It had ever been Sweden's territory, and his mark could still be seen here, left in the flowerbeds that spilled over with colour and scent every spring. Now the earth of them was hard and frozen, caked in unforgiving frost. _Winter takes all._ Norway let his fingers trail across the trunk of a withered and bare tree. Old, this one, but hardy, fit for many more decades of life. Snow bit at his hand with frozen teeth. It was bitterly cold, but Norway could not find it in himself to care there and then. He closed his eyes, letting the snows and the frost envelop him in a familiar cold blanket, at one with this still and stony world. _I knew another world, once. A world of glowing lights and gossamer wings, arcane incantations and pooling power in my veins._ He still felt it, sometimes, a low hum beneath the surface of his skin that set his heart racing and made his mouth dry. Such abilities did not belong in the here and now, not when all he had time for was unpicking this Gordian knot of politics and passion (and lack thereof, Norway thought dryly).

But once...once, there had been a world without brothers, a world without responsibilities- a world that only he understood, without needing words to convey its meaning. Norway let his eyes fall open in silent salutation to the sky. It was impossibly wide that crisp December night, a silken sapphire sea crested with waves of stars that glittered like the brightest jewels of a deep and dark vault. _And all I want is for it to rise up and consume me. Would that really be so terrible?_ Not so terrible, it seemed to Norway. To set aside all his hopes and cares and worries and dreams and loves and fears and passions and terrors- to set aside his life, and let warm darkness swallow him. This life, this existence of waiting for something better, was a pale and petty thing, now that he thought upon it. _But there is strength in its frail arms, a strength of shifting shadows that warps love and need to appear as weakness._ He lowered his gaze back to earth, fists clenched. Dreams would not bear him back to his family. It was no good striving to sit amongst the stars when he had nothing to tether him to what was real and true. So Norway disregarded the keening of his heart, brushed aside the old advice of his soul, and turned back to what he knew best.

Minutes had passed- perhaps they were hours?- when Norway finally made his way back into the house. Nights such as these played with one's thoughts as a child might with a kitten. He shielded his mind determinedly against any further doubt, shedding the snow-caked boots and cloak as though some ill omen clung to them. He caught a glimpse of himself in a hall mirror as he passed through the threshold. The face that stared back at him was almost unrecognisable. Norway's eyes were lilac-shadowed and heavy-set, their deep blue irises no more than endless pools of night. He raised a shaking hand to trace this new gauntness, almost flinching when skin fell cold upon skin. _Not me. Not as I should be._ Norway let the hand fall and continued up the stairs, ignoring the trembling that wracked his whole body, ignoring the dry fear in his mouth and in his heart.

A ghost waited for him beside the window. Denmark's features were made to glow by candlelight, but the sorrow that curled his shoulders forward was unmistakable. Norway approached him as one might a tame beast- slowly, cautiously, anticipating.

'I saw you.' His voice cut through the silence in three quavering notes. Norway took a step closer, heart no longer heavy with fear but with regret. 'Out in the garden.' He turned around, the tiniest of smiles curving his lips. For the thousandth time, Norway cursed the idiocy of the one whom he had sworn to always love- how he could, with no apparent thought or purpose whatsoever, pierce straight to the matter of whatever was troubling Norway at that moment. 'You looked at peace.' That threw him. He had felt swamped out there, yes, swallowed and smothered by the vast night sky, but never peaceful. Nothing so gentle as that. But Norway only nodded, wary of what the rest of this tale might bring to light. 'Peaceful, as I haven't seen you for months, even years.' Denmark turned his gaze away from the window at last, eyes desperately wide and searching. 'I don't even remember how it changed.'

'When I died,' murmured Norway. Saying it was like a knife through the invisible bonds that he had borne for so long, like the weight of so many words unsaid had finally been dashed from his shoulders. But Denmark was shaking his head, denying it.

'You didn't die, I saw your eyes open-'

'I _died_ , Danmark. That's the truth of it.' Norway held his gaze levelly, not wanting to prolong this any further than was needed. 'And I lost something of myself along the way- the part that let light in, happiness.' _And I'll never be able to get it back,_ he added silently. _You will watch me descend into despair, and there will be nothing that you can do._

'No.' Denmark's voice cut resolute and determined through the silence. He stepped across to Norway, closing off the space between them with a few long strides, and cupped his face in gentle but trembling hands. 'It's still you in there, even without smiles or laughter. You're still you.'

'Why are you saying this?' He would have broken away, but the tender warmth against his skin persuaded him otherwise. 'We were not made to die, Danmark, yet it seems that fate demands something of us all the same. And it has taken away my light.' Norway stepped backwards, and Denmark reached out, still hoping, not understanding, wanting to hold onto something that was already gone. When their hands touched, it was nothing more than a cruel chafing upon his soul.

'I can't lose you, Nor. I can't lose everything.' _You never did learn, did you?_ he thought with a bitter blend of regret and gratitude. _But you will understand, eventually._

'You have to let me go, you have to learn how to weather loss. And it is my loss really, not yours.' The loss of all colour and beauty in this world, bright flower petals and drifting branches of leaves, sun-blushed clouds streaking the sky and the glacial glow of the moon. All that would be taken from him, and more.

'Don't you think I already know how loss feels?' Denmark's hands clenched around his so tightly that it almost ached, but the grief plain upon his face somehow leeched away any hurt. 'They left- _them_ , our brothers, the ones who had sworn to always stand by us- and I carried on. We all carried on. We can carry on like this, too. I'll never leave you, Norway, I swear it.' The love and trust in his eyes tore at Norway- he would leave Denmark instead, mind spiralling deeper and deeper into its hole of despair until not even the most blazing hope could pull it back from the brink.

'Iceland. What about my brother, Den? You have to understand, to be ready, so that he...' Norway's voice trailed off. He was desperate now, searching fruitlessly for the argument that would null Denmark's stubbornness into silence once more. Who knew that love could be so selfish? Staying, keeping their single spark of hope alive- that would only serve to harshen the blow when it finally came. Norway pictured the life leeching from him, his eyes turning blank and his soul freezing over; he shivered, though the room was warm. But that seemed almost nothing to him when compared with the image of Iceland's beaming face.

'He's like a son to me,' whispered Denmark in one tortured breath. 'I know he's your brother, Nor, but I raised him. We both did. Taught him how to do things, how to ride a horse and swing a sword, taught him what it meant to be a nation.' Norway nodded, a thousand achingly fond memories coursing through his mind.

'And I know it sounds selfish- but I can't bear to lose him. I can't bear to lose either of you. Do you understand?' He did- understood it too deeply for words, down in those most hidden and precious parts of his soul- understood it in the same way that Denmark's hand in his felt _right_ , how their bond could not be broken by something so small and feeble as time. _But is fate written down? Is it all decided already?_ If so, then there was nothing left for him. Norway saw despair inside himself, confusion and fear. But in the bright pools of Denmark's eyes lay burning, fervent hope.

'I won't leave you.' A promise, he knew. And countless times more solemn than the dozens of oaths Norway had sworn in all his long years on this ravaged earth. He would never truly be whole again. But there were things he could do to hold together the pieces- people, places, memories- and for now, that was enough.

 **thanks for reading!**


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: this is (hopefully) the last late update for a while! I meant to update about a week ago but there were unforseen circumstances which meant I couldn't, but I promise I'll try to make updates more regularly! thank you for all the feedback and support it means a lot :) hope you enjoy reading!**

 **Spring 1630, Stockholm**

The chilled water of the marshes seeped into Sweden's boots as he stood, high upon a sodden grass ridge, to survey the mustering of what would soon become an army fit to represent an empire. His empire- the empire he had dreamt of for so many centuries- with no bounty to show for all his wishful thinking. But not so any more. Since Poland's surrender, Sweden's every waking moment had been pledged towards the war effort in the Holy Roman Empire, and befitting his country for the shining future that awaited it. There had been endless council meetings, legal papers waved in his face by the more cautious and distrusting members of King Gustavus' court, long wet rides to far-off villages in the north where they might gather a few dozen more soldiers, negotiations that refused to unfold and potential allies who were unwilling to become so. And then there had been the times when he stood before the people of great cities at the side of his king, had heard them roar his country's name, _his_ name, and felt it reverberate deep within his heart. There was a nascent power pooling beneath the surface of Sweden's skin, a giddying rush of strength that only augmented with each passing day, and he welcomed its arrival eagerly. _The start of my golden hour. The day when I come into my own, and take all that fate has withheld from me for so long._

This new bright thrill inside him- forged harder and stronger by the amassing of forces and resources- was tempered and controlled by Finland's steady faith in all he did. A smile curled the corners of Sweden's mouth; he shook it off, heat flushing his face crimson. No one could occupy his every thought as wholly as Finland so often did. Yet having his trust was the greatest reassurance after so many years of struggle, and Sweden bore it like a beacon of love and confidence. At last, they could be together without fear or doubt- and they would soon share in all the riches of the Swedish Empire, Sweden's promise to Finland fulfilled and his debt paid a thousand times over. _I swore that I would bring us better times. I swore that we would see the dark days pass, if only we stayed together._ And soon he would have the satisfaction of knowing that he had kept his solemnly made oath. Even as the thought crossed Sweden's mind, so did another, older shadow of the past. _They will be watching._ He brushed it aside as one might a fly. Denmark and Norway meant little and less to him these days, diminished and defeated as they were, and Sweden could not even find any spite within himself to wish upon those he had once called brother.

A shout from below returned his attention to the present. Sweden squinted through his fog-clouded glasses, the shapes of several tiny doll-like figures just appearing through the mire. They were heaving on a web of ropes that circled a gold silk pavillion- the king's, he realised- attempting to hoist an oblong of dull blue material above it. The wind howled and gusted, the men below yelled out in surprise, and the blue material unfolded like a flower awakening into spring, its yellow cross bold and brazen amidst the oncoming storm. It flew proud and high in the deafening gale, and likewise did Sweden up on the hill sense a warm clench of pride about his heart.

' _Sverige!_ ' came a ragged shout from below. The soldiers bellowed out his name again and again, drowning out the storm, their voices rich with all the hope and glory that a rising empire is accompanied by. ' _Sverige! Sverige!'_ _Yes,_ thought Sweden. _For Sverige._ And he smiled as the first hint of summer sun began to pierce through the clouds.

The various formalities of war had changed since his first days of a warrior, and decorum dictated that a celebratory feast was held for the departing king and his soldiers on the eve of battle. So the night before they were due to sail for Germany, Sweden found himself seated high upon the dais at the king's right hand, with Finland placed on his other side. Below, countless rows of benches spanned the length of the hall, all of them crammed to bursting with infantrymen and cavalry soldiers and all the other fighters that had been amassed to fortify Sweden's fortunes in the ensuing conflict. The air was heavy with raucous voices and the smoke of several hundred candles. For a while, Sweden gave himself up to the almost tangible joy of the evening, reminiscing long and deep with Finland about previous misadventures over their years together, and toasting this new bright era with every sip of ale he took. _We will not fail this time_. The notion- no, the revelation- sent a thrill of nervous excitement racing through his veins like boiling water.

'It is good to see you smile again,' murmured Finland, taking the weight from his words with a hearty gulp of wine. A warmth that was far more personal bubbled up in Sweden's chest.

'And you,' he said, mouth hanging slightly agape at the angelic sight of Finland bathed in golden light. Finland shot him a small but hopeful grin, and had just opened his mouth to say something more when KIng Gustavus rose to his feet.

'My people,' he began, with that age-old moniker that rulers have ever bestowed upon their subjects. 'Loyal friends and citizens of Sweden. It is my pride and pleasure to stand here before you tonight, knowing that the wealth of a dozen kingdoms awaits us across the sea tomorrow.' A few of the more drunk soldiers at the back cheered at that part, but they were waved into silence by the king's raised hand. 'I have every confidence that God has blessed our journey and the noble work we do for the Protestant cause, yet should this venture prove to end in my death, I have laid the necessary preparations for such an event.' He gestured to Queen Maria beside him. Sweden noticed only then that in her lap she held a girl of no more than three years old, with a shock of sparrow-brown hair and eyes that peered about the room with startling gravitas. 'In the event of my death, this kingdom shall be ruled in the name of Princess Christina until she comes of age and can take up her throne independently.' A low murmur of shock diffused the otherwise jubilant atmosphere in the hall. It was not customary for women to rule in a kingdom such as this one, no matter their level of competence, and not even the successful reign of the Danish Queen Margarethe could do much to sway the minds of the lawmakers. Sweden suppressed a sigh. For all his enmity with the now distant figures of Denmark and Norway, there was no denying that Margarethe had been more of an effective ruler than any of her male counterparts at the time. It made sense, then, to assume that Christina was capable of just as much.

'This decision has the full support of my council, and the approval of all those who are required to give it,' said King Gustavus with a hint of vexation. He turned his head aside minutely; Sweden gave the smallest of nods. _I will support her,_ that gesture said. And he would. _There is no higher honour than to uphold the legacy of our greatest king in centuries._ The king resumed his place, and soon the ambience of the room returned to its former joyous state. But there was a low rage burning in the pit of Sweden's stomach that quite soured his previous euphoria. These men would follow their king to any end, trusting his ability to lead, yet when faced with the prospect of his daughter becoming queen, they shrank back like frightened animals. _And what if I told them the truth?_ he thought with a bitter smile. _That we had women with us on every single one of our raids in the Viking times, and they fought every bit as ferociously as the men._ He glanced over at the princess. Again, Sweden could not help but be struck by her birdlike features, her almost haughty bearing and determined jut of chin. Not pretty, not like her storybook counterparts- but spirited without a doubt. And it was spirit that would carry them through this war if not anything else.

 **Northern Germany, spring 1630**

'Loot these three towns along the eastern shore,' said King Gustavus, sweeping a callused finger along the outline of a small islet on his map. The cabin floor rocked and roiled beneath all their feet, but Sweden remained unperturbed along with the others. 'We shall set a fire burning brightly enough that Emperor Ferdinand can see it all the way from Prague.' Sweden nodded, mind already focused upon what the next day would bring- upon battle and blood, wealth and glory. Their voyage from Stockholm had been a tense one, fraught with anticipation and expectation and a hundred other feelings that churned themselves, like some agitated beast of the seas, deep in the pit of his stomach. But now, stood here, he felt only the grim sense of pleasure that the thought of a hard-won victory brought. Finland beside him wore a similar expression of intent. He would be leading his own troop of Finns tomorrow; there could be no higher honour for him after so many years of isolation and alienation under Swedish rule.

'Where do you intend to regroup?' asked Finland now. The king's finger moved down the blue-black line of a river and to a forest-cloaked town, marked in red.

'I do not wish to wait any longer for war and glory,' said Gustavus with venom. 'We have the strength, we have the numbers; let us take the fight to them.' Brave words, even presumptuous- just what they needed after so many years of caution. _No one can stand before our armies, not even this so-called mighty empire. We shall soon see how they like the taste of northern steel._ 'Denmark and Norway may have fallen, but this lion still has claws. Emperor Ferdinand will learn that quickly enough.'

It was with that mantra ringing in his head that Sweden drew closer and closer to German shores, Finland beside him as ever. They exchanged the smallest of glances, eyes flickering to meet each other, and again a rush of heady excitement surged through his body, flushing his face deep red. For him. _After all this time, no matter what, all I do has been for him in one way or another._ It would remain like that no matter what, Sweden realised. And his realisation was suffused with a strange sort of relief- he could devote himself wholly to Finland, to their love, and know that never again would he have to doubt himself in such matters. A shiver coursed through him when their knuckles nudged each other, barely. Again the white-hot thrill of power began to bubble beneath his skin. _This is meant to be. We are meant to be._ This new thrill was overwhelmed by an older, more familiar one- the thrill of battle and the song of swords, no outside circumstances attached- pure joy.

'Guns.' He gave the order in a voice that was low with anticipation. The rasp of a hundred muskets being raised filled the air, accompanied by Finland's more dulcet tones giving the order in his own tongue. Sweden raised his weapon, squinting to where he knew the enemy awaited.

And then it began.

Imperialists in black-and-yellow livery ran out from between the village's clustered houses, wielding bayonets and rifles and all manner of the latest military equipment. But there was no army on earth that could withstand the might of a northern storm. Stepping onto the battlefield was like being born again, into bright, simple clarity. For what could be simpler than this- lifting his weapon, taking aim with an instinct that had been his for centuries, firing- and knowing that his shot had met its mark. Sweden did not delight in death; rather, in ensuring the survival of his own people with every bullet he let loose. Finland was a veritable maelstrom of action, whirling about as though in his own world, firing with uncanny accuracy at every unfortunate soldier to cross his path. There was ash on his face from the burning buildings, and not an inch of him remained unmarred with blood or mud after enough time had passed, yet to Sweden he had never seemed more perfect. _He has a heart of gold behind the steel- and when they are unleashed together, no one and nothing would not quail before him._

'Behind you!' The shout broke his reverie like a sledgehammer through glass. Sweden had just enough time to turn before the soldier burst into view before him, dressed in damning yellow and black, gun held close, too close-

A pair of strong arms hurled him to the ground just as the bullet whizzed past his ear.

'Idiot,' muttered Finland, dragging them both upright again. He prodded at the German man with his toe for a moment, before nodding, seemingly satisfied, then wheeling back round to glare at Sweden. The battle still raged on behind them, but Sweden only had eyes for the man in front of him.

'I'd be dead now without you,' he said, deciding that it was better to cut off Finland's inevitable lecture before it had a chance to arrive.

'You'd have died a hundred times before without me,' shot back Finland, though it was not without humour. He gave a brilliant, blinding grin, shouldered his rifle, and was back in the middle of the conflict before Sweden had a chance to say another word. It was then that he knew- Finland was worth a thousand, thousand times more than any empire, sweet as power was. _I would give every inch of my land away for him._ He only prayed that it would never have to come to that.

It was an easily won battle, more of a skirmish than anything, yet still the king ordered that a night of feasting would be held by the riverbanks of the ruined village. Its people were in turn forced to move on to the next little waterside town, where no doubt tales of this new northern threat would spread and gain notoriety. All in accordance with the king's planning, of course.

'Let them see,' he said, when his commanders protested that the feast would give away their position to the enemy. 'Ferdinand ought to know what he faces by now.' So it was with the warm buzz of victory in their hearts that the Swedish soldiers settled down to celebrate that night, cracking open casks of the finest barley ale, roasting salt pork over their campfires and bellowing out songs of glory and blood and good cheer. Sweden could not remember a time when he had smiled for so long. It was just like the old golden days- except this time he did not have to share his delight with anyone but his own people. And delight he did that night, refusing the quiet courtesy and fine wines of the lords' pavillion for coarse-tongued infantry man and their raucous drunken music. Finland too appeared to be in his element. He added his own voice to the songs, the Finnish lilt lending guttural Swedish a hint of mystery and magic. Not for the first, or even the thousandth time, Sweden's heart leapt into his mouth at the mere sight of Finland. Somehow the day's bloody brutality had only increased his personal shine. His face was flushed a delicate pink from too much ale, eyes wide and sparkling as they drank in the star-spangled night sky. Starlight had brushed silver through the gold of his hair; _he is the most precious jewel, like a sharp winter's morning with the sun rising over the hills, beauty and iron and ice all forged into one._

Heat enveloped his body, tightening his throat and letting an uncomfortable moisture cloud his eyes. Sweden muttered some unintelligible excuse and stumbled on alcohol-dazed feet to the safety of his tent. It was cooler and darker in there, so he felt safe to remove his glasses and let his face drop into his palms. All of it- that day's victory, the blood, the ale, the laughter, the songs, _him_ \- all of it was too much, too loud and bright. _But so beautiful. More than anything._ He stumbled upright again, searching for some semblance of his former composure. Sweden's aching eyes flitted from tent wall to ceiling and rested to gaze upon his precious maps. He had been tracking their progress and future path meticulously, adding his own notes and small illustrations until he could almost glimpse this theatre of war in whose wings they yet resided- a theatre of war where, quite soon, the kingdom of Sweden would take centre stage. _A smile crept unchecked across his face. All I have ever dreamed of, ever wanted, waited for- it is so, so close now._

His happy musing was shattered by the admittedly devastating form of Finland, gold-washed and silver-skinned, framed by moonlight in the doorway of his tent. He wore his usual soft smile, but there were hints of iron at its edges that Sweden found himself wanting to press his own mouth to. Chasing _that_ thought away, he decided to take advantage of this unexpected but most, most welcome occurence and stepped closer towards the subject of all his current delight.

'I kept to my word.' His voice was somewhat rough- ragged with centuries of unspoken love, it seemed to Sweden. 'I promised you this-'

'I know you kept to it. You always do.' Finland's trust in him was far sweeter than any triumph on the battlefield, as always. And this time it was Finland's turn to decrease the space between them, his quick, light steps echoing almost silently across the carpeted ground. A wave of sudden nerve crashed over Sweden.

'We have proven ourselves to be greater than them, I think,' he said in tones that burned with quiet intensity. 'Denmark and Norway would never-'

'Don't talk about them here, not now,' whispered Finland, cutting him off for the second time that evening. His mouth drew into a curved bow of contemplation; something leapt deep within Sweden. 'Forget them.' And at last Sweden's hands came to rest upon his waist. They cradled each other loosely, closely, paying attention to nothing but the twin fires smouldering in their eyes. Outside the soldiers sang on and on; fires crackled, a bird of prey shrieked high in the sky. But there was nothing but them, nothing but this room, their faces drawing nearer and nearer together, the soft parting of Finland's lips and his eyes fluttering shut with long dark lashes-

He tasted like ale and ash, like honey and wine. But there was hope as well, nervous, flickering exhilaration, a tender, soft love that almost melted Sweden there and then. _I love him,_ he thought, and never had a stronger or truer conviction crossed his mind. He knew then that they were strong enough to weather even the longest and darkest of storms, that any doubts to be held about the bond they shared could be cast aside like feathers on the wind. But what struck a chord most deeply within Sweden was the trust he sensed in Finland's every touch. He broke away, staring into the face of this most beloved, most precious of people, and smiled through the sudden onslaught of tears.

'You're crying.' _I know, I know_ , he would have said, were it not for the tightness claiming his throat again. But if he could not weep at this- the second forging of their love, the hope it brought to the united realms of Sweden and Finland- then there was nothing he could weep at in all the world.

It was just as King Gustavus had predicted. The Holy Roman Emperor, ruing the loss of the northern fishing villages, sent out troops under his most trusted commander to meet the Swedish army. But momentum and preparation were on their side, and they walked away victorious many more times than not. For Sweden, it was like living in a dream; every triumph added fuel to the furious fire in his veins, and soon he found himself looking upon the field of battle with nothing less than pride. His ears rang with bellowing cries of Sverige, and his sleep was suffused with constant images of the golden future that awaited his land. Wealth was important, of course, as was dominion of the northern seas- but the thing he treasured most of all, held in highest esteem, was the newfound security in the bond he shared with Finland. These men fought for religion, for the teachings they believed in. King Gustavus had personally sworn to bring Protestantism to a still largely Catholic Europe. Yet Sweden, when he aimed his rifle and readied his horse to charge, thought of nothing but a frost-feathered night in an isolated forest of the north, and how his life had been turned upside down from then on. With every day that passed, it was almost as though new vitality had been breathed into him. _I will see this kingdom become an empire,_ Sweden vowed to himself. _I will see justice done and the debt we are owed by fate paid._ And out of all the oaths he had sworn over the years, this one was by far the most solemn.

 **Eastern Germany, Leipzig, September 1631**

Their lives continued in this manner for almost a year and a half, always pushing towards the inevitable breakthrough that would seal Sweden's position as a powerful empire. It came, perhaps a little unfittingly, upon a wet and dismal night in the marshlands of Eastern Germany. Rain beat down with pattering feet on the ceiling of the silk pavillion as they waited for the meeting to begin.

'Now,' said King Gustavus, when all the councillors were assembled. Sweden was seated at his right hand, Finland on the left. 'We set out into this conflict with a singular aim- to establish the kingdom of Sweden as the first northern empire of this era. I can now announce that this objective may soon be achieved.' His words were meticulous, carefully chosen, but they served their purpose well enough. _Soon I will represent an empire._ The thought set a spark in Sweden's tired and war-fogged brain. Around the table the other commanders whispered amongst themselves, eyes locked upon the king as he smoothed out a folded sheet of parchment in front of him. 'Our scouts report that the Count of Tilly rides east with an army of thirty-five thousand, making for the city of Leipzig.' There was a collective drawing in of breaths; their own camp was situated not five miles from the walls of Leipzig. But the true danger of that statement did not lie in location and direction. The Count of Tilly was Emperor Ferdinand's most trusted leader, Imperial Commander of his armies and kingpin of all the Catholic forces in this war. To have his attention could mean only one thing- they were finally being viewed as a serious threat to the Holy Roman Empire, and so Tilly would seek to drive the lot of them all the way back to Sweden. But that was of course just what Gustavus wanted.

'The final piece of the plan has fallen into place,' he said, and Sweden smiled to himself. It felt good to always be a step ahead for once. 'They may have the numbers, but we have better weaponry, better tactics- and courage. Courage always counts for something.'

'When do we ride?' asked someone from down the table. The king's mouth twisted in a wry grin.

'We are situated upon high ground, overlooking several acres of land. If Tilly is as brash as they say, then he will ride right up to us and bring the fight here.' It was beautifully, terrifyingly simple, so simple that Sweden knew victory was the only option here. And they would not fail. It seemed to him as true as the sun's dawning each day, as certain that the moon would stay in the sky or that it would rain in England. All he had to do was see it through.

Yet his sleep was restless that night, plagued by old ghosts of the past and the dark memories they unearthed. He dreamt of Kalmar, of the Stockholm Bloodbath, of countless little fights with Finland that had been the very root of his previous insecurity. _This is the moment I have been waiting for all my life. But what will my life be worth if I should not succeed?_ Then you must not fail, Finland would have said, but in that moment he was shrouded in the deep slumber that so rarely comes the night before battle. Sweden let his fingers trail through sleep-tousled golden hair, traced the perfect bow shape of Finland's lips as though it was glass he touched. This- this was a good memory. He enshrined it within those darkest parts of his mind in the hope of casting some light there. _With him by my side, anything is possible._ These past few months had certainly proven that. So Sweden sighed, discarded any thought of snatching a few hours' rest, and settled down to wait with Finland's hand in his and an uneasy candle of hope flickering in his heart.

His candle was bobbing and wavering as morning finally roused the Swedish troops from their stupor. Sweden dressed in silence, cursing fate that doubt should come to him here and now, when it was least wanted. He stiffened as a pair of warm hands crept over the lines of his back.

'You're nervous.' Finland's voice had a rough edge to it that he neither liked nor understood. 'It'll pass,' he grunted, reaching for his boots. The leather was cold and strong-smelling; he focused on that, on what he could hear and touch. But when Sweden turned to begin the arduous process of donning his armour, he found a steely-eyed Finland stood in his path with folded arms and a pursed mouth.

'You doubt yourself,' he said in smooth tones, dropping a heavy chainmail shirt over Sweden's head. He forced himself to ignore the admittedly very distracting (and very satisfying) sensation of Finland's hands brushing over his shoulders, but found that stepping away was much harder than it seemed.

' 'M not.' A light laugh escaped from those devastatingly red lips. Five strong fingers grasped his chin in a hold that was purposeful, but not entirely malicious. Fervent violet eyes met his own fatigue-dulled ones.

'I don't doubt you,' said Finland, as if that made it any easier. 'I never have.' Sweden shook his head in derision and tried to pull away. Finland darted forward and grasped both of his arms again- _stronger than he looks, how could I forget?_ 'You were meant for this,' he continued, slipping leather bracers onto Sweden's forearms whilst his attention was diverted. 'You and me- the empire we always dreamed of, the empire we waited so long to have.'

'But what if it all goes wrong?' whispered Sweden, all too aware of how childish he sounded. 'They've taken so much from us, Fin, and we wasted decades of blood and pain trying to get it back. What if it's not worth it?' Finland heaved a long sigh, but his smile was fond. _The only smile I can trust, after so long spent living in fear._

'There will be books written about the Golden Age of Sweden, about the great empire of the north and its indomitable power. You will have a legacy to last the centuries, a legacy even greater than that of our dear diminished brothers.'

'What are you saying?'

'I'm saying, most beloved and chiefest of idiots, that you deserve this. That we deserve this. And that if there's something we want-' Finland gestured with a wide sweep of his hand to the land below- '-then we take it. We take it all, the rest of the world be damned, and we don't wait for the gods to decide who's owed what.' Sweden released a breath that he did not realise he had been holding (there was something especially beautiful in Finland's face when he became animated) and managed the tiniest of nods.

'You've always been the wise one,' he stuttered, not sure if it was a question or a statement or a fact. Finland appeared to agree with the latter. He looked up from where he was putting on his own armour, a slow and secretive smile spreading across his face. Sweden's heart performed one of those lurching leaps that it had been so proficient in lately.

'I suppose I can only be thankful that you realised that today of all days,' Finland replied with a shrug. He climbed heavily to his feet, intricately engraved armour ringing from the movement. Some strange instinct gripped Sweden, and he cupped Finland's face in his gloved hands, forcing their eyes to meet.

'No more doubts,' he murmured.

'Is that a promise?'

'It is the truth.' The moment was perfect- twin gazes of passion and fiery adoration interlocking them, faces close enough to kiss, (a good idea, thought Sweden) love and patience and trust finally coming together to form this flawless scene- and then the low groan of a warhorn echoed in from outside.

'To arms!' someone was calling. 'All men to arms!' Sweden turned away, securing his daggers in their scabbards and slinging a belt of ammunition over his shoulder. The musket rifle and bayonet were strapped to the armour on his back. Yet just as he was leaving the tent, a hand caught his shoulder.

'You idiot,' murmured Finland, and then he pressed his lips to Sweden's own.

A faint tingling still teased his mouth as the now assembled army made its way to the battlefield, cavalry trotting behind the endless lines of footsoldiers. The herald called _halt_ in his booming voice so that they stopped just at the edge of the field. For a few weighted seconds there was no noise but for the chatter of birds and wind caressing the trees, no voices except for the nervous banter of new soldiers and gruff admonishments from their older counterparts. Sweden's eyes fixed upon the standard held aloft in front of him. Blue and bright gold, the colours of his country, the colours of glory. Never again would he have to ride behind a flag that was not his own. _No more red. This will not begin with blood._ Instead it began with a clear autumn sky, pale and cloud-speckled, and arife with the rising cacophony of an army on the march. It was a noise he was all too familiar with, and one he would never forget as long as he lived. He forced himself to remember Finland's words: _we deserve this_. _We will take what we want._ And Sweden wanted this, wanted some absolution for the years of doubt and suffering that he had endured. So it was with a cold intent in his heart that he first laid eyes upon the infamous army of Ferdinand II, Holy Roman Emperor.

He could feel their need to get this over and done with even now, watching the Germans rise over the hill like a troop of marching ants. T _hey will be hasty, even careless. Perfect._ And indeed it was the enemy line that surged forwards first, their commander's cry of _Aufladen!_ echoing harshly through the wind-whipped air.

'March,' muttered Gustavus. The herald repeated his command in a snapping shout of Swedish. Clockwork-like, the first line of infantry began to march, steel-shod boots announcing their arrival for all to hear. They appeared efficient, unruffled; the German army were rushing in comparison. The two armies met with an audible clash of armour, and Sweden could not help the tiny wince that escaped him. He watched with bated breath to see if Gustavus' long laboured-over plan would succeed, to see if the dots and lines and painted wooden figures on the maps would translate into real life and begin the first phase of their victory. Just as the king had said, their infantry's lighter weapons gave them an advantage over the heavier rifles of the enemy. Dying groans punctured the air, but few of them were in Swedish. Sweden found himself unable to tear away his eyes from the scene; he had been raised in blood and battle, and it was blood and battle that would ever be able to capture his attention henceforth. The world was sharp and clear as it had not been since the day his sight was stolen from him. He saw a bullet being fired two hundred yards away as though it was happening in front of his eyes, heard some wounded man's moans closer to him than he would have preferred- every sense was heightened, tuned more finely somehow.

He could feel the nervous thrill of the men behind him, could almost touch the tension thrumming through the air like windborne adrenaline. _Give the order_ , Sweden wanted to yell. _Let me seize my destiny with both hands and hold on tight._ King Gustavus was murmuring something to Finland beside him. Finland nodded, bright eyes focused and determined, then wheeled his horse back round and levelled his bayonet ready to charge.

'We shall ride on my count,' the king was muttering into Sweden's ear. He nodded, disorientated by the endless crashes and shots and yells that made up the music of war. _Three_ , signalled the king with his hand, (Finland's hair had never appeared more like spun gold than it did right then) _two_ , (an eagle was soaring through the sky, a Prussian eagle with eyes of yellow flame, but a stray arrow pierced its throat and it fell-) _one_ (he was ready).

And then they charged.

A roar was building within Sweden as his horse's hooves churned up the soft ground, putting yards and yards of ground behind him, a roar loud and proud enough to befit this reborn lion of the north. The German cavalry spurred to meet them- but he was Sweden, and he was strong, never stronger than when Finland stood by his side- so of course they had no chance. He rode into the fray with fire in his eyes and a shout upon his lips, fierce and wildly, wickedly exhilarated as any Viking. The first soldier that fell to his bayonet died almost too easily. For this was easy, this joyous rampage and destruction, ripping out old and withered parts to usher in the new. He fired and stabbed and shot in a familiar rhythm, charging on and on as the Imperial army shattered beneath them like glass. The king was to his left, Finland to the right, and together they were the three architects of triumph, carving out the empire of Sweden that would surely be born on this very day. Sweden's every desire, brought to life here and now. He moved as though in a dream, light and fluid, manifesting destiny with every enemy that he felled. _And if I am dreaming, then at least it is a good dream._ It did not matter that the armour upon his back was heavy and dented, that congealing blood and sweat dripped into his eyes, that his every muscle screamed out for relief from this constant death-edged dance. All that mattered was the beauty of the moment.

It was beautiful indeed when, after six long hours, Count Tilly's army lay crushed and broken beneath the claws of the Swedish army. _The Lion of North, they call him now,_ thought Sweden, staggering on weak legs to where King Gustavus surveyed the aftermath of the day, _and it is a title well earned_. Finland stood in silence at the king's side. He alone was seemingly without exhaustion, and not even the mud and blood splattering his face could take the sheen off his breathtaking aura of peace and enchantment. _We did it. We did it._ The sunset streaked the sky with slashes of pink and dusky gold, fading from blue to a soft, gentle glow.

'The sun will never set on this empire,' breathed Finland, so quietly that Sweden almost thought he had said nothing at all. He turned his head, quick and birdlike. Sunlight wove and danced about the golden crown of his hair. 'Our sun has only just begun to rise.' _Yes, yes,_ thought Sweden, delirious with exertion and giddy with joy. He slid his arm around Finland's shoulders, still hardly daring to believe that the warmth beneath his fingers was his to caress, and watched as the final inch of blue sky was turned to pure, bright gold.

 **(agonises over bad ending) thanks for reading! (I've been wanting to write this battle for ages, it's an important one in history terms, but I didn't want to overdo it too much)**


	22. Chapter 22

**sorry again for the late update, my aim is still weekly chapters but school is hectic so it's more likely to be every 10 days or so. hope you enjoy!**

He dreamt of silver shores washed with blood, of a golden crown upon a golden head. He dreamt of a cross dappled with blood, beautiful and terrible at the same time. He dreamt of the crown melting into nothing and two sapphire eyes glazing over, dead- _only dreams,_ Denmark told himself, _just pictures in my head. Nothing to worry about._ His eyes flickered open, squinting in the early morning light, the room becoming gradually less clouded. Denmark stretched one arm languidly across the length of the bed, and was not surprised when it was met with nothing but the coolness of the sheets.

'Stopped dreaming at last, have you?' Norway's voice was cold and faintly amused as it floated over in the chill morning air.

'How did you know?' grumbled Denmark, peering over to where the object of all his affections sat, enshrined in pale dawn light.

'Thrashing around, moaning, mumbling- very hard to sleep next to. Anyone would think you had a demon rolling around inside your otherwise empty head.'

'Pardon me for disturbing His Majesty's rest,' he mumbled. Denmark retrieved yesterday's discarded clothes from their heap on the floor and dressed, yawning. He trudged across the expensive Persian carpet that spanned the length of the room and dropped into the window seat beside Norway. Norway blinked up at him, eyes bleary with fatigue but still dark, clear blue.

'It's not me you should be worried about.'

'Hmm?' Denmark responded absent-mindedly, absorbed in the brushing of his fingers through Norway's sleep-mussed hair. A hand came up and shoved his own away. Norway resumed his usual expression of haughty disdain, though the barest hint of a pink blush crept into his cheeks.

'You must have noticed- well, knowing you, you probably haven't-'

'Don't you like me the way I am?' he whispered, lips just barely brushing the pale stretch of skin over Norway's neck. Again, he pushed Denmark away, evidently not in the mood for an early-morning encounter.

'The king, idiot. He's been restless recently, more so in these past few weeks.' Truth be told, Denmark had noticed nothing of the sort. Council meetings these days were dull affairs, taken up with endless talk of taxes and trade, trifling little affairs that Norway insisted he partake in. But the king's business was his own and his own entirely. It had long been a personal policy of Denmark's never to interfere with the lives of his royalty- to never exercise the considerable sway over them that was his to exploit.

'And what of it? Kings are never satisfied with what they have or don't have.' He tried to distract Norway again, dropping a casual arm around his waist and pulling him closer.

'The Count of Tilly was defeated three days ago in open battle by Swedish forces. They say Emperor Ferdinand is preparing negotiations to end the war and cede several of his German duchies to King Gustavus as a peace offering.' Denmark's smile froze. His upstart of a little brother was overthrowing empires now, was he? Jealousy rose up in his throat, bitter and constricting, but he willed himself to remain calm.

'Lillebror has been busy, hasn't he?' Norway met his eyes with a look of cold and vague concern.

'Christian will want revenge. He sees it as Sweden's fault that our time in the war ended as it did, and now that their fortune is rising, he will do anything he can to secure us a part of the glory- at the very least.' He considered that, feeling the last of his morning fatigue slip away, to be replaced by the familiar complex spiral of politics.

'We cannot afford another war,' said Denmark at last. 'Our current resources and income are not large enough to accommodate one.' Norway nodded in agreement, but something sadder, centuries-old, had entered the dark pools of his eyes.

'It's more than that,' he said, in a voice edged with rough regret. 'When they left, we promised each other something.' That intensely despairing gaze was turned and focused upon Denmark.

'To let go of them.'

'That was over a hundred years ago now.' Norway rose to his feet, pale and gold-doused in the weak winter sun, stopping by the open shutters of the window to recollect his thoughts. A hundred years ago. _I was foolish then, still believing that they would never truly be free._ But it was he who would never be free of them- not whilst memory-laden wars such as this one were allowed to continue. 'More than enough time to forget them, yet not a day goes by when I don't wonder if they're stronger than us now, if we were ever really wiser for the choices that we made.' He pronounced the last part in a mumbled rush of words, as though to soften the blows of the daggers of the past.

'Perhaps we were never supposed to let go,' Denmark muttered before he could check himself. The raw truth of the words was like a thousand tiny pinpricks to his careful layers of distance and apathy when confronted by this subject. Again, Norway's eyes froze over with dark and glacial profoundity.

'It is always possible to move on. Always.' He accentuated it with a short, sharp inclination of the head, causing Denmark to instinctively nod in return. 'Allying them was the worst mistake we could have made- yet I don't want to fight with them either.' But feuds like this always ended in blood, in tears and loss; they did not slip away like shadows on the wind. _If it is to end in blood, then that is the fate we have been given._ Only Denmark could not decide which tore at his heart more- to fall to the once submissive swords of Finland and Sweden, or to extinguish their lives himself.

It so happened that that night they were invited to dine with King Christian, a formality he deemed requisite for maintaining good communication. Reluctantly, (for they could in no way refuse the offer) Denmark and Norway had donned their finest clothes and were now sat in the august but austere lion's den that was the king's dining room. He was not a man given over to frivolity or brightness. The walls were of dark, oiled teak, ornamented only by hangings of simple white and red, and the floor was still made of the flagstones that Christian's predecessors had been so fond of. Yet despite their sombre surroundings, Denmark felt that the evening had been a success so far. There had been no venturings into any major matters of state, albeit a few tax and trade issues that Norway glossed over tactfully, and it appeared that the only thing he need worry about was the dull thudding of rain outside. The clock chimed to signal ten o'clock, and Denmark took a healthy gulp of wine in acknowledgement of it. One thing that could be said for these mundane meetings was the excellent alcohol on offer.

'We ought to return,' announced Norway, glancing askance at Denmark. 'My brother will be waiting, if Your Grace would be so good as to excuse us?' The king nodded, waving a hand in dismissal, and Denmark felt a pit of relief sink down into his stomach. He had been dreading some sort of confrontation ever since the news about Sweden had arrived. Together he and Norway stood, sketching small bows to their sovereign. Perhaps his hope for a quiet, comfortable night would be fulfilled-

'Not you.' Denmark's feet came to a stop in their hurried strides, and he had to resist the urge to curl his fingers into fists. Norway shot him a look of mingling sympathy and customary cold blankness before he closed the door behind him with a click. 'Sit.' Slowly, unwillingly, he sank back down into his seat, hoping that the resentment was plain upon his face. The king refilled his glass to the top with the last of the rich red wine they had been drinking and gestured for him to take a sip. Denmark did so with an affected glare, thinking that perhaps it was best to get drunk as quickly as possible if he had to waste time here. Christian seemed to agree; he too drained his goblet, then uncorked another with surprising dexterity and took his filled cup over to the window. Outside, the rain had ceased, and night crept over the sky in swathes of inky blue and raven black. 'I am becoming old,' said the king after a lengthy silence. Denmark did not reply. _It is hardly my place to comfort mortals when I have no knowledge of how time passes for them_. 'I have felt it ever since this last war ended. Or at least since we were removed from it.' He laughed, a bitter, humourless noise. Again Denmark said nothing, but inside his head was whirring with disarray. He had expected the king to convince him that rejoining the conflict was best for their country, or something along those lines- not the regrets and fears of an aging man. It made him uncomfortable, out of place.

'I'm afraid I don't understand, Your Grace.'

'I would not expect you to.' Christian turned back to face him with the smallest of smiles; Denmark felt almost young again, like a reprimanded child. The smile slipped. 'I do not wish my legacy to be a series of almost-won wars, no matter what the rewards that were reaped by it. No one remembers battles that were almost won.'

'You have ever held the respect of the people, no matter what our fortunes in war are. They will remember you, Your Grace.' The words had a somewhat meaningless sound of duty to them.

'Again you cannot understand. You will be forever young, no matter how many thousands of lifetimes you live- you do not feel the pressures of your dwindling years.' His face became pensive, pained. Denmark poured himself another healthy measure of wine. Already something akin to guilt was grating at the edges of his conscience. 'It is my belief that we shall see Sweden become a great empire, the figurehead of the Protestant cause in Europe,' continued Christian. 'That is a position that should have belonged to this kingdom.' _Then blame me,_ thought Denmark sourly. _Blame me, spend the next fifteen years resenting me and time will take care of you in the end._ He had little care for the wishes and wants of kings these days, though once his own and theirs had gone hand in hand. But power meant little when there were a thousand years and more in which to lose it.

'We cannot-'

'Only by attaching ourselves to Sweden's glory will my reign have any worth to it,' cut across Christian, voice knife-sharp. 'I tried to earn this kingdom the respect it deserves, and when that failed I allied us with our former greatest rivals.'

'For what, Your Grace? For power? There are more precious things in this world,' burst out Denmark. He had to make the king understand, to make him see that one violent act did not have to follow another. But Christian only shook his head with the minutest of movements.

'I am glad that you are able to view it that way,' he said quietly. 'That reassures me, if nothing else. But these past forty years upon the throne will have been ill-spent if I have no legacy to show for them.' He understood, he did. _Everyone has their guilty needs, most of all kings._

'My brothers,' began Denmark awkwardly, aware that he was clutching at straws. 'Forgive me, but you have no idea- the decades of pain and enmity that we built up will never be easily overcome. I implore you, Your Grace, if there is one thing that we cannot do it is to ally ourselves with Sweden and Finland once more.' He waited, pleading desperately that the king would see sense, no matter how much the dilemma lay on the wrong side of politics and rationality. At last Christian sighed and shook his head, expression rueful.

'I wish it were that simple,' he said. 'Yet I see no other way but to go to war. If we will not ally with them then we must fight against them- it is the only way we shall gain anything from these last years of my reign.' The king turned back to face the window, moonbeams sharpening the already hollow features of his face and casting a shroud of age upon him. His words replayed over and over in Denmark's head in an insistent echo. _If I agree to this, if I agree to plunge our country back into war again, then it will all have been to shield one man's legacy_. Yet looking back, he found that such a prospect did not entirely deter him. Christian had been a good king, just and commanding from the start, and he understood the necessity of nations perhaps better than any monarch since the Kalmar Union's Queen Margarethe. A lump of mingling sorrow and acceptance rose up in his throat; he realised that he would be sorry to see this king die, after all he had done for the Kingdom of Denmark.

Denmark raised his head out of those thoughts, catching the inscrutable eye of the king. For one chilling moment it was as though Christian could see every notion that passed through his mind. Then it was gone, and he settled back in his seat, a little more than uneasy.

'I fear for what shall befall this nation when I am gone. My heir- he is not so well suited to this role, not as much as he needs to be.' Denmark dipped his head in a small nod, not wishing to reveal his true views on Crown Prince Christian as much as he would have liked to. The heir to the throne was inconsistent, easily distracted, preferring the arts of drinking and hunting to that of statecraft.

'We shall do our best to maintain current standards, Your Grace,' he promised, remembering countless occasions where Norway had outmanoeuvred and coerced their monarchs so as to benefit the good of the realm.

'I trust that this kingdom will be safe in your hands,' said the king with a wry grin. 'That at least will bring me some comfort on my deathbed.' Again Denmark shifted in his seat, unnerved by mentions of the king's death. He did not like to think what would happen when someone else was sat upon the throne.

'When do you intend to go to war?' he asked, more to change the subject than anything else. That alarming veneer of frailty returned to Christian's face.

'When I deem the time to be right,' he said, though there was more than a hint of uncertainty in the words. 'These things cannot be rushed, no matter how important they might be.' Denmark nodded; the room fell silent once more. He finished the last of the wine, savouring the warm, slow buzz it lent to his mind, and tried not to think of the warm bed and cold Norway awaiting him not so far away. 'I will be remembered with some respect, I think,' the king continued quietly. 'The people need not know that this is solely for my pride, no matter how much I have given for them over the years.' He could understand that well enough. _Being a nation is four parts sacrifice and one part dull council meetings._ 'One last chance at dominance, then,' said the king, jolting Denmark out of his reverie for not the first time that night. But then his thoughts went to Norway, to Iceland, to the life of relative peace and comfort they had built together. Starting another war- again- threatened the very continuation of that life. Denmark ran a hand through his hair, suppressing a groan of despair and far too intoxicated to come up with anything but agreement. Then he remembered Swedish flags flying high and proud above a sun-dappled hill. He saw Prussian steel tearing through Norway's shoulder, just as he saw it every night in the darkest of his dreams. Something uncoiled and rose within Denmark; slowly, he lifted his head.

'One last chance.'

The chains around his wrists were raw and chafing, but he felt nothing but the dull ache of defeat, curling low in the pit of his stomach. That day was a bleak, rain-washed one, in which Gilbert had done nothing but walk, walk, walk. His once-fine clothes had long since turned sodden and stained, and with his bindings he could not so much as reach up to scratch his head, yet Gilbert was determined not to let any of it lower his spirits. They had lost a battle. Armies lost battles all the time. _But not this army_ , a mean little voice in the back of his head hissed. He shook it off, making sure not to stray from the lines of prisoners taken captive by the Swedish army. A _Swedish_ army- that was what stung most for Gilbert. They'd crushed Denmark and Norway easily enough, even fatally wounding the upstart nation who had dared to challenge the mighty Kingdom of Prussia, and so Emperor Ferdinand had assured his eager troops that this second northern force would be much the same. _More fool us,_ Gilbert thought bitterly, sparing a glance up at the steadily darkening sky.

Yet the Swedish army possessed a ferocity and channelled fighting spirit that no one could have anticipated. They had crushed the Prussian lines like iron-shod horses trampling over glass, sweeping aside all of Count Tilly's carefully laid plans and putting a rather significant dent into Gilbert's own confidence. Not that he was letting anyone on to that, of course. It would not do to be seen as weak- especially not in the ignominious position of a prisoner. And not exactly a prized prisoner either. _What did you expect?_ he berated himself, doing his best to ignore the marshwater that soaked his feet every time he took a step. _Chains of soft pretty gold and a fur-lined carriage to travel in?_ Northerners were not known for their luxurious lifestyles, admittedly. The big stern one in glasses who had apprehended Gilbert probably shivered at the mere sight of silk. He was a nation as well, evidently still unused to the stolen streams of power flowing through his veins. So too the shorter man beside him; Gilbert had to suppress a smile whenever he recalled their brief meeting. He'd approached Finland- at least he thought it was Finland- with the intention of taking a valuable prisoner to lessen the blow of their defeat a little. The next thing Gilbert knew he was facedown in battle-churned mud with a knife at his throat, murmuring his surrender inbetween whispered curses. _These northerners have no small skill with blades, no matter how much we might mock them as thick-skulled savages._

They were still savages, of course, no matter what came of this stupid Swedish pretense at being an empire. Again Gilbert's mind cast back to another meeting with a northern bastard- _at least we won that battle, and I wasn't sleeping in the same filthy rags for three nights in a row_. But although he would never admit it, a large part of that being due to Hungary's penchant for teasing him whenever the situation allowed, Norway had come closer than most to cutting short the Kingdom of Prussia's existence. _He was good with a sword, fast, all uncoiling energy and grace._ Gilbert allowed himself the tiniest of smirks. _Not too good for me._ What struck him most about that particular fight was the way the Norwegian had knelt, head bowed, sword laid flat in the palm of his hands, a surrender unlike any he'd seen before. Even when to dash his head from his shoulders would have meant Prussia's certain triumph, he had hesitated for a fraction of a second. _Why didn't he save himself?_ Gilbert had wondered for days afterward, the way his sword had sliced through skin, flesh and bone and ended a life seeming hardly to matter in comparison. But he had never been one to dwell overlong on the deeds of others. It made for a miserable, overwraught life, as he'd tried to tell Austria upon so many occasions.

As the bruise-hued sky had foretold, rain began to pour forth in a chilled, dampening shower. Gilbert tossed his wet hair from his face and continued on determinedly. _Better that Hungary was here instead of me._ She adored rain, rain and all its varying characteristics, and considered no day better spent than one outside in a downpour such as this. Gilbert hated it; the water darkened his pale hair to a light, ashen grey, as though it had somehow been suffused with smoke. Now he thought of Elizabeta, of her childish joy at changes in the weather, and hoped with a fervency like no other that she would be on her way to rescue him. She'd tease him when she found him, a laugh behind her facade of sternness, and then they'd fall back into their easy routine of fighting and joking and loving as though nothing had changed. There was an odd weight to Gilbert's heart whenever he pictured her face- Austria's too. And his little brother, Ludwig, upon whose child's shoulders the burden of the Holy Roman Empire had come crashing down. _I know I can be a terrible fool, Eliza_ , he prayed silently to her through the roar of the rain, _but don't leave me to freeze out here._

Who knew what these icy bastards had in store for him? Gilbert pictured his home, his family, and a wave of longing washed over him that in no way helped the stinging cold in his bones. _I miss them_ , he realised. The thought nearly stopped him in his tracks. Yet it was damnably, crushingly true. He, Eliza and Roderich, blurring the lines between friends and lovers more times than their relationship should have withstood; little Lud, so serious and staid, single-minded in his duty to the empire; even Feli, the boy they'd raised as one of the family after having conquered his lands hundreds of years ago. _God take me, I miss them_. And all it had taken for him to go soft was one minor defeat at the hands of some upstart Swede. _Come and save me soon._

That night he and the other captives were chained to a long wooden post and left for the night, rain still pounding down upon their heads as though the gods were filled with some special fury that night. Gilbert craned his neck back as far as it would go, straining to catch a glimpse of any activity in the Swedish camp. He had no such luck. A shiver rolled through him, and he shook his head, determined not to show any signs of weakness for the preservation of his pride. The moans of dying men soon began to permeate the smoke-clouded air; during the day they had fallen and lain silently, but now they could do nothing except to sit and wait for fate to take them.

'Barbarians,' Gilbert muttered under his breath. His voice was husky and rough after three days of near-muteness. At least the stars were clear, out here in some desolate eastern corner of the Holy Roman Empire. Some scholar or other had tried to teach him the constellations when he was younger, but he'd never listened, preferring the clash of steel on steel to ancient scribblings in dusty old books. Now, Gilbert almost wished he'd listened- the cold was bad enough, never mind the boredom. _I'll go mad if I'm forced to live like this for much longer._ The only reason he had even attempted to hold to his sanity was in the faint hope that the Swedish king might want to interrogate him. He was after all a close confidante of the emperor, privy to his every plan and decision. _Or so they'd like to think._ Gilbert's mouth twitched in the briefest of smirks. Emperor Ferdinand liked to hold all his cards close to his chest; he told no one anything but what they needed to here, and saved those most precious pieces of information for himself. They would get nothing of much value from Gilbert. Through the haze of his fatigue, he wondered absently if they planned to torture him. England was notorious for its Tower of London and the machines of pain there, and underneath his polished manners he was no less of a northern savage than these Swedes. _At least a bit of torture might liven things up around here_. His eyes slid shut, and he was immediately accosted by a perplexing montage of Hungary laughing amidst a rainstorm, accompanied by a grizzled Norse warrior with a jagged blade in his hand. Dreams, perhaps, or nightmares; he was soon asleep all the same.

'Up.'

'What is it?' he mumbled, head lolling onto his shoulder and snapping upright again. A stony-faced sentry stared him down with disconcerting sobriety.

'The king wants to see you.' Gilbert was led by his chains (like a dog, he thought resentfully) through a sea of blue and yellow tents, eventually coming to a stop outside one that was larger and somewhat more palatial than the others. _Time to beard the lion in his den, I suppose_. He swallowed, clenching and unclenching his fists in an attempt to ward off a sudden wave of anxiety. At last someone barked a sharp command from within the tent, and Gilbert was dragged forward once again, stumbling over the uneven ground. Someone let out a harsh laugh; rage coiled within him like a whip. King Gustavus' private quarters were dim and warm, lit by hundreds of candles that cast shadows across the high peaked ceiling of the pavillion. Gilbert barely had time to take in his surroundings before he was shoved unceremoniously into a chair and tied down, wrists and ankles both bound. The air in this king's santum was close and cloying, like perfume. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. _Barbarians always have some pretence at being civil, it seems._

'Something in here that displeases you, Prussian?' said a voice in accented English. Gilbert's eyes adjusted to the low light just as he recognised the speaker- King Gustavus himself, terror of the Battle of Breitenfeld and the current thorn in the side of the Holy Roman Empire.

'Nothing that you need concern yourself with, Swede,' he shot back, adopting his most winning smile. Not that Gustavus looked the sort to be won over by charm, but it might unsettle him all the same.

'Very well then.' The king turned and yelled something in that guttural language. Two sets of iron-shod footsteps echoed through the tent; he knew who they belonged to without looking.

'Nice to be reacquainted with you,' said Gilbert in conversational tones. 'A shame that our last meeting was not so- friendly, I think.'

'We're not here to be friendly.' From anyone else, it might have sounded like a threat, but in the mouth of the towering Swede it was merely a statement of fact.

'I shall leave you to deal with him,' announced Gustavus, and he took his leave in a swirl of blue-black robes.

'What is Emperor Ferdinand's next manoeuvre?' asked Sweden with startling abruptness. There was something icily intense burning in his eyes, a determination (or dislike?) like no other Gilbert had seen. He decided to play the casual game; staid, sober ones like these were always fun to tease. Gilbert gave a shrug.

'How should I know? And what's it to you, glorious victors of Breitenfeld?' Sweden's face darkened with anger. _This is too easy,_ thought Gilbert, the effort of not laughing aloud cramping his stomach.

'I imagine you would ask the same of us, were we in your undesirable position.' This came from the little Finn, the one who had insofar proven himself to be made of a stronger, darker steel than his Swedish counterpart. _I'll have to watch my tongue around this one._

'Oh, it's _undesirable_ , is it? I always thought myself rather desirable if I'm honest-' He grinned through the slap dealt to him by Sweden.

'Show some respect,' he growled in a thunderous voice. _The Finn is the one with the smart mouth, but the Swede is driven by emotion. He might end up saying something he regrets._ Gilbert leaned back in his chair as best as he could, widening his beam.

'Going to torture me if I don't behave? I wouldn't put it past you savages, to be honest.'

'We are no savages,' began Sweden stiffly. Finland's face twitched a little at that. 'We are-'

'You'd call me a savage if you knew what I did,' blurted out Gilbert, fully aware of his aggravating tone. 'What I did to your brother,' he continued, drawing out the last word, letting it linger upon his tongue. 'You know nothing of torture, _Schwede_. I carved my sword through your brother's body as though it was made of silk, and he died in agony. I made sure of it. I watched his eyes fill with pain, watched those same eyes lose their sight, heard his family scream out.' He did not fail to note the sudden flash of Sweden's eyes at that last part. Gilbert gave an embittered laugh; he was already tired of this so-called interrogation, and there was no better way to hasten its ending than to unsettle the Swede. 'His family,' he said again. 'But I suppose you don't really count as one of the family anymore, do you? We've all heard about Northern Europe's estranged band of brothers.'

'Stop,' mumbled Sweden. 'Please.' There was something shocked and confused in his eyes, a lost look of terror that almost had Gilbert's sympathetic side manifesting itself. _God, he didn't know, did he?_

'You didn't know?' he asked carefully, more from curiosity than intent to harm.

'I knew.' Sweden's voice was whisper-quiet. He barely seemed to notice the furious face of Finland beside him. 'I... I saw him. Not long after it happened.' Then his eyes roved upwards, and that forthright blue gaze was fixed directly onto Prussia's face. 'He's not dead. I've seen him die before, and this is no worse.' That was news to Gilbert. He tried not to let the surprise show on his face, though inside a curious coolness was spreading through him. _We cannot die. Not like that, at least._

'I don't suppose you've concerned yourself with him for a while, then?' he asked coldly. 'I have a brother too.' He stared into Finland's eyes for a long moment, then Sweden's, then back again, knowing that his unnatural crimson orbs would unsettle anyone if utilised well enough. 'A brother already stretched thin by the immensity of his empire- and that empire could fall if this war drags on for long enough.'

'What do you want, _preussilainen?_ ' snapped Finland. 'You've wasted enough time here with your stupid stories- tell us what the emperor is planning.'

'That's what happens to nations without their own land,' continued Gilbert, paying him no mind. _I have nearly broken Sweden down._ 'They simply fade away, like ashes on the wind, gone.' If any of this was unsettling Sweden, he did not show it; yet a slight twitch in the corner of one eye betrayed his fear. Gilbert's gaze switched back to Finland, and the beginnings of a plan entered his mind. It was small, mean, cruel- but he had had enough of this dark, perfumed room for one night. 'He'll fade away, you know. The more you fight for your Swedish Empire, the hopes and dreams that you recite to some pagan god every night, the more his land will be enveloped by yours, until there is nothing left but markings on a map to show that Finland ever even existed.' Something visibly shattered within Sweden. He stared for a moment, mouth gaping open and closed like a goldfish's, before seizing Finland's arm and marching them both out. Finland's voice became low and menacing. He hissed something in his own tongue, but it was whipped away on the cruel winter wind.

Gilbert let out a lengthy sigh. His strengths had always lain in aggravation, a small talent though it was, and for once they had come in useful. But there was no denying the deafening solitude that swept over him when a gust of wind came howling into the tent, extinguishing a good few score of the candles. Pungent smoke filled his nostrils; he wrinkled his nose again. Right now even the rain-drenched prison camp seemed more welcoming than this room of perfumed heat and clouded darkness. The smoke was making him tired. He could feel it seeping into his lungs, a slow, grey poison, but Gilbert's eyes slid shut all the same. Sleep came with merciful speed.

Yet he was still grateful when, a mere few hours later, something sharp and steely was jabbed into his chest, and a pair of cat-green eyes shone out at him from the gloom.

 **when I was planning this chapter, there wasn't much of interest to write about Denmark and Norway, so I thought I'd write this little Prussia sideplot! He might feature more often until Denmark and Norway's history gets more interesting again, as there's a lot of wars between them in the 17th century. Thanks for reading!**


	23. Chapter 23

**Sorry for this being a bit late, I had it mostly done a few days ago but my computer decided to crash and it turned out I didn't save the document. Hope you enjoy! and thank you for all your support! :)**

 **Winter 1631, Eastern Germany**

He had protested at first when Sweden yanked him bodily from the pavillion, abandoning their so-called interrogation with Prussia after it had proven itself to be a failure. But once they were outside, exposed to the crisp night air and sharp bright moon, Finland had seen the anguish plain upon Sweden's face, and knew that his inner turmoil was far from curbed. Prussia was razor-tongued, mocking, manipulative- everything Finland thought he had taught Sweden to rise above. The frustration clenching around his stomach now was borne more from the cruel words themselves than the walls they had torn away from Sweden's composure. _The more you fight for your Swedish Empire, the more his lands will be swallowed by yours. Nothing left._ He replayed the conversation again and again inside his head, so much so that the shapes and colours of the memory became distorted, even hellish. Finland's eyes snapped open. There would be no rest for him here, not tonight. His hands curled into fists, longing for something to anchor themselves onto. _Something to remind me that I still walk upon this earth._ Standing, still fully clothed, he sidestepped Sweden's still form (no doubt still awake; he was a restless, ever-moving sleeper) and let the cool sweet taste of the outside air lure him away.

The stuffy heat of the tent was instantly dissipated, and Finland drew in a long breath of the late autumn air. All he could hear was Prussia's lightly spoken, inutterably damning words, all he could see was the spiteful gleam of that cutting smile. It had been clear from the off that he was clueless as to the next move of his emperor. _And with good reason too_ , thought Finland bitterly, letting his feet carry him through the camp where they would. _I wouldn't trust him to shoe a horse, let alone tell him a complicated battle strategy._ Then why had his loose tongue been so adept in shattering Sweden's patience? Theories and queries and all manner of intertwined thoughts battered his exhausted mind, constantly overshadowed by the mocking shine of two crimson eyes. On he walked, a constant trail of fear dogging his footsteps. But Finland forced himself to move, straying further and further from the camp as though some damning poison hung about it, a web of whispered lies and cruel smiles that he did not want to understand.

It was only when the exertion started to stab at his lungs that Finland ceased his frantic pace. The world was spinning; his heartbeats came quickly, heavily, like gravity dragging down a wounded bird from the sky. His dark patch of forest was quieter than a snow-coated cemetery. But it would not do to be afraid of the setting sun, so he forced himself to sit, back supported by the ridged bark of some ancient tree. _And it does not do to fear shadows where there are none, yet I fear them all the same._ Finland's eyes drifted open again. He tried to reel in his wriggling thoughts, like a fisherman struggling with too many nets. They had won a glorious victory not three days ago, and captured a valuable prisoner to boot. The nights following that day had been joyous and full of song, triumphant- until this one. Until they had dared to venture out and seek the man beneath the mask that was the Kingdom of Prussia. Finland sighed, letting his fingers swirl through the damp soil. It brushed cold and soft against his skin, and the not-altogether unpleasant sensation of dirt gathering beneath his nails was almost like a wave of catharsis. It had been long years since he had been able to feel the familiar ebbs and flows of his own lands; here, the connection was faint, but deep-rooted.

 _I shall return to the camp, to Sweden's side, and will think no more on this_ , Finland told himself firmly. Yet there was rich, dark earth beneath his fingers, a star-spangled velvet sky beneath his head, and in such fine company he knew he could not lie to himself. Something had changed, back in the dim haze of the tent where Prussia now sat abandoned. Something had come loose in their delicately constructed equilibrium of peace. And Finland could not have said what it was to save his life. _I hope it will not come to that,_ he thought, the briefest of smiles hardening his face at the grain of dark humour. _Learn to let go once in a while._ Who had taught him that? Surely not Sweden, whose every comfort lay in serving and command (and he would never acknowledge that it might have been one of _them_ ). So he let go. Finland forgot the crimson fire of Prussia's eyes, Sweden's naked fear, his own swirling tangle of doubts, and gave himself up to the night air, the strong sweet smell of the earth caught around his fingers. This he could understand. This dreamlike state, his only companion raw nature, this was what he had known before words or faces. And it was of words harshly spoken and faces fondly remembered that Finland dreamt in the end.

He woke as he had fallen asleep, still clinging to dreams, head aching. The sky was still a murky black colour above him. _It can barely be after midnight_ , he thought, glancing up at the yet-shining moon. Reluctantly Finland turned his head in the direction of the camp. It would be warmer there, safer, but some primal doubt held him in place for the moment. Even as he turned, a low echo sounded from below. _A war horn,_ Finland realised with a jolt of fear. A slow chill crept up his spine; if they were being attacked here, now, then there were few ways this could end well. Finland shelved his doubts for the meantime (a skill that Sweden unfortunately was yet to develop) and set off at a light, fast sprint, unsheathing his short dagger. His heart leapt and throbbed with all the thrill of a hunt. Only this time he could not shake off the feeling that he was the prey. _Be quiet, be quiet,_ Finland told his frightened half irritably, knowing that he had to keep a clear head if he was to make it out of an attack alive. At last the lights and muffled sounds of the camp came into view.

'...gone in the night,' muttered someone. 'Guards found dead...' That was all Finland needed to know. There could only be one person whose departure from the Swedish column would cause such unrest- besides the king, perhaps. He crept further forward, less careful about hiding himself but wary in his wakening state. King Gustavus' towering council pavillion stood before him, just where it should be. _The guards are at their posts, the pavillion is in its right place._ A wrinkle of a frown crossed Finland's brow. Confusion gripped him; it was an unfamiliar, disconcerting sensation. He let the hood of his dark cloak fall and stepped out into the open. Sometimes confronting a problem face to face was more advantageous than it seemed. He counted twelve men stood in a ring around the tent opening- some poked at the earth with their spears, others talked in voices too low for him to catch.

'One thing is obvious,' announced the king at last. Finland took the opportunity to slide past and take his place next to Sweden; Sweden's stern expression crumpled a little, but he kept his composure. 'Our most valuable prisoner has escaped, with no means to show how or when he did so. Two brave men are dead, yet the Prussian cannot possibly have been armed.'

'He had an accomplice,' muttered Sweden, voice thick with sleep. 'Someone who knew where we were and how to find us.'

'And nothing to tell us how this mysterious escape was managed,' ground out Gustavus. His eyes surveyed them all, cold and blank. But Finland was barely paying attention, gaze fixated instead upon the pinned-back tentflaps where Prussia must have made his escape. _He'll fade away, you know, fade away, fade away..._ Something about this dilemma had piqued his interest- in a way that made his every waking second worse than the dreams that came to him at night. Every question he had was met with a dozen others, every problem that arose concealed layers of more, and the spiral only continued to tighten, trapping him within its grasping coils. Something acrid and almost burnt-tasting soured over his mouth. Finland turned his back upon the scene, not entirely sure where to direct his disgust. But no sooner had he set off towards the questionable sanctuary of his own tent than heavy footfalls sounded in his wake, painfully, endearingly, obvious.

'It wasn't your fault.' Had he been acting as though it was so? The concerned reassurance in Sweden's voice was blatant and clear as day, soft and small like the tones of a child.

'I know it wasn't my fault,' he said, sharp, abrasive. 'We move on. We put it behind us. The last thing we need is to let this destroy what we have created in the past two years.' Sweden nodded, face set in contemplation, yet there was something unsure in the downward curve of his lips. Finland had to suppress another sigh. Once again, Sweden's unfailing patriotism had proven to be his setback. 'This is beyond anything of the king's business,' he said gently, taking Sweden's forearms in a light grasp. Of course he would want to tell Gustavus what had truly transpired in that thrice-damned tent. The scene was all to easy to envisage- Sweden, knelt before the throne with a bowed head, Finland stood grudgingly beside him as he told his honest tale and shouldered the weight of retribution.

'Fin, we can't-'

'I have always admired your truthfulness, even envied it sometimes. And I love you all the more for it.' He smiled- cracking at the corners, but sincere. 'But Gustavus will never understand the words that were exchanged tonight between Prussia and ourselves. Fate, death, destiny- those go beyond human understanding in our case.' Sweden gave another, more definite nod.

'He cannot know about Norway.'

'No. He cannot.' Finland rewarded him with a second smile. He did not wish to manipulate Sweden, far from it, but these things never progressed without a little encouragement first. 'Prussia is powerful. The Holy Roman Empire is more powerful still. That is bound to bring about arrogance- there was nothing more we could have done with Prussia.' _Now I am the one reassuring him._ And there were few people in the world that needed more reassurance than Sweden. Slowly, a flower unfolding in the rain, Sweden returned his smile.

'I was wrong to have doubted us.' _You were wrong to have trusted that Prussia might be able to tell us anything. As was I._ 'We move on, then?'

'We move on.' Before he realised it Sweden was in his arms, embracing in the light rain; Finland turned his face up towards the sky, letting it wash him clean. 'And we shall have everything we have dreamed of.'

The next morning dawned crisp and bitterly cold, accompanied of course by a council meeting at the crack of dawn. It was no more than a formality, however, scheduled for the day of their departure. Finland drew on his riding clothes and hooded cloak in silence. Last night's words still hung heavy in his mind, no matter what soft comforts he had whispered to Sweden. Yet it was with an unburdened heart that he stepped outside that day to face the toil of several hours on horseback.

'Did the Prussian tell you anything of worth?' asked King Gustavus, sober in his dull steel suit of armour.

'Nothing that might have been useful, Your Grace,' replied Finland swiftly. He shot Sweden a surreptitious smile. 'It is clear that Emperor Ferdinand does not wish to put all his eggs into one basket, so to speak.' The king nodded, turning next to his maps and reports.

'Our new primary aim is the capture of German cities and provinces, the better to expand Sweden's territories. His voice dissolved into a low hum of strategy and tactics; Finland barely paid attention. There was a buzzing beneath his skin, an excitement reawoken by the prospect of more battles, more conquerings. Breitenfeld had been the beginning. And now a new era of power would follow it for years to come.

 **Winter 1631, Eastern Germany, en route to Prague**

Gilbert waited until the metallic thump of the Swedish column had faded away before opening his mouth to speak. But Hungary got there first.

'You _idiot_ ,' she hissed, summer-green eyes narrowed with anger. 'You couldn't have got yourself taken prisoner in a more remote place, could you?' Her chestnut hair was tucked away from sight, coiled up in a long braid that disappeared beneath the hood of her cloak. But her face, her voice, everything- Gilbert's dream stood before him.

'Sorry,' he muttered. Contrition worked on Austria perhaps once every century, but it was worth a try on Elizabeta, whose naturally good temperament meant she was never angry for long. 'The battle was-'

'I've fought in just as many as you have, fool. It'd do your fat head good if you were to remember that.' Her voice was scathing, furious, yet that tiny tug of the lips was enough to give her away to Gilbert. He assumed his usual easy grin. _Same old Eliza, same old fights._

'We shouldn't waste time arguing, Hedervary. Might be some Swedish straggler hears and decides to tell his king.' Hungary rolled her eyes, succumbing at last to the smile.

'We need to reach Prague within the week,' she said as they began to walk. A bird of prey soared above, the sky was unblemished and duck-egg blue- the perfect winter's morning. Eliza looked all the better for it, in his apparently ever-so-humble opinion. 'The emperor's baying for your blood, in case you hadn't worked it out for yourself already. You know how he hates having his orders disobeyed.' Gilbert did not reply for several long moments, turning her words over and over inside his head. He disliked Emperor Ferdinand and his meticulous nature; he disliked any sort of caution that was unjustified. 'And I defied him to come and find you,' continued Hungary.

'This- it doesn't matter,' he said at last, ducking to avoid a low branch. 'I was captured, you found me again, problem solved. Don't know what His Imperial Majesty has to complain about. This means nothing.' Gilbert mumbled the last part under his breath. But nothing escaped Hungary's eerily accurate hearing.

'It means everything, you dolt. Thanks to your defeat at the hands of those barbarians, we've shown the world that we're not invincible.' Something cold but wildly desperate flashed across her face, only to be replaced with the customary fire that Gilbert knew and loved. 'And now we'll have to destroy the Swedes before the thrice-damned rest of Europe realises what happened.'

Elizabeta kept them going at a brisk pace throughout most of the day, stopping only to refill the water skins or to toss some sharp remark Gilbert's way. But where she was energized, motivated from having achieved her goal, he felt only fatigue and the deep weariness that so often comes with defeat. _I have not yet told her about Sweden and Finland._ The thought near stopped him in his tracks, though Gilbert was soon hurrying after her after one glance from those gleaming emerald eyes. There were few things as terrifying as her rage once it had been sparked.

'Did they interrogate you?' He let out a short and mirthless bark of laughter, darting to keep up with her long strides. The metal plates of Eliza's armour shifted against each other as she walked, a constant clanging rhythm that he tried to match his slower strides to beside her long ones.

'They tried, but that Sweden's about as intimidating as a newborn kitten. Tall, broad, a proper Viking, but he didn't have half as much steel in him as Finland.'

'Fascinating,' came the murmured reply. 'I met his brother in Prague once, you know. Their family's about as twisted and estranged as a good few parts of our own.'

'Mm.' The conversation died there again, swallowed up by the damp, winter-drenched hills of East Germany. Their path took them through pine forests with carpets of aromatic green needles, shadowed and pungent, across waterlogged fields where Gilbert's boots finally gave out and Eliza had to haul him past, up cruelly sloping hills and into mires of thick and shifting mist. It was a place of dark mystery, this land of his, and he made a mental note to see more of it in times of peace.

Elizabeta finally allowed them a longer pause when the sun had risen high into the sky, weak and feeble amongst swathes of dense creamy cloud.

'There's a village nearby,' she explained, expression almost as distant as the eagle they had glimpsed earlier. 'They might give us something to eat and a place to sit for a while.' Gilbert cast a look around- and then his eyes alighted on a bluish plume of smoke towards the east, drifting lazily as though from a pipe.

'Eliza.' She saw at once. The two of them made towards the smoke quickly, coming to a stop as soon as Gilbert's foot caught on a charred and blackened slab of wood. 'Before God,' he breathed. The village which might have offered them respite was now nothing more than a pitiful crumbling of grey stone and splintered timber, a fallen monster spewing out choked lungfuls of crimson-tinged ash. No house or stable had been left untouched. Some still burnt, flames flickering in corners and crannies, beginning to be extinguished with the sputtering rain that fell. _An army did this- it is thorough, even methodical._ Gilbert took a step closer, revulsion clenching his throat. His feet trudged carefully down the cobbles- something was sticking to them, something which he had a chilling suspicion as to what it was.

'Blood.' Elizabeta said it for him, voice grim. 'All dead, then.' She tipped her head back, braid spilling free at last, but the rage scrawled across her face had more than a touch of frustration to it. Even as Gilbert watched, her mouth hardened, and pure hatred burned in the deep green pits of her eyes. 'Damn those _szemetek_ to hell!' Eliza was angry beyond a doubt, angier than he'd seen her in a while. Premonition clawed up Gilbert's spine with icy talons, and he gave an involuntary shiver.

'Eliza, we should-'

'They made me leave my horse in exchange for food, and the promise I wouldn't kill them,' she interrupted, hands grasping at her hair and pulling agitatedly. 'I thought I'd be back within a day, two depending on how hard it was to find you.'

'And how long ago was that?' asked Gilbert. He knew his voice was too quiet, too disinterested, even apathetic. But he had no time for Hungary's fits of passion in that moment. _I just want to get home._

'One day. Almost exactly.'

'So who-' But he already knew. It was as though the puzzle had been laid out right in front of them. Gilbert stalked further forward, a rage of his own bubbling up, letting the blood smear his feet in all its crimson horror. All of these people, for him. They had died for him.

'The Swedish knew I was here, they must have asked a villager. Before they killed the lot of them, of course,' she added, in tones that were alight with despairing fury. 'And the bodies...' There were none to be seen. _Tidy, deliberate bastards. I'll slaughter the lot of them. I'll rip out their deceiving liar's hearts and scream their crimes so that hell can hear, and they'll get the torture they deserve._

'We'll have our revenge, I swear it. To you, and to them.' He let his arm slide across Eliza's shoulders, her warmth bleeding into him like sunlight. She leaned into the touch, but her eyes still roved across the sorry scene, merciless and darting. Gilbert's eyes caught upon something blue in the distance, a wavering scrap of material edged with gold that spiked instant revulsion in him. Hungary had shot forward before he had a chance to even open his mouth. She heaved at the wooden shaft of the standard (running up now, he saw what it was), tugging it from the earth with a groan of exertion and leaving it to sprawl across the ground. Embroidered azure and rich yellow gleamed up at them wickedly, a reminder rendered in silk that the north did not forget who its enemies were. Eliza held a hand over her heart, and her lips moved silently- praying, he realised. _I have not prayed for long years now. I have faith in no one and nothing but myself._ And her. Always her. Gilbert returned his arm to her waist, wanting her near, and bowed his head. There was something damningly solemn about praying for those who had already passed; it felt to him like a last well-wishing, a feeble hope, before some higher power decided the fates of the dead. The first drop of rain fell just as Elizabeta unsheathed her short knife and drew a long strike down the curve of her palm. A thin smear of blood dripped from her hand to join the rain, and she straightened, seemingly satisfied.

'I suppose we caused their deaths, in a way. Now the blood debt is paid.' It would never truly be paid. But they both knew that without saying another word. So Gilbert nodded, wrenched his eyes away from the sombre scene, and took the next step on the road that would lead him to home and to justice.

Daylight flickered and died, and the rain still showered down from the heavens, cold and heavy as sin upon his head. Hungary's mouth quirked in the smallest of smiles when the storm bellowed into its full glory at last, yet a haunted guilt still shadowed her eyes, and her voice when she spoke was low and hoarse. Something almost resembling relief softened her face when Gilbert suggested that they stop for the night.

'Get up and gather some wood, then,' Eliza said briskly, restored to herself. 'Soon there won't even be enough light to see out here, never mind in the forest.' So he did as he was told, traipsing after her into the thicket of gnarled trees to gather what little dry wood they could. After nearly an hour his back twinged and burned hellishly, yet they still had no more than a few spindly twigs and a moss-carpeted log. _I thought this would be more like the fairy stories I used to tell Ludwig. Adventures with a princess in an enchanted forest, something like that._ The princess in question appeared to have forgotten that it was a dark and dismal evening. Instead some internal light glowed around Elizabeta, framed as she was by a circle of dewy pines, and the hair streaming from her tipped-back head was the ruddy colour of an autumn sunset over purplish-chestnut bracken. _An enchantress. No, a fairy queen._ Gilbert's mouth was dry; a curious ache welled up inside his chest. Then the moment had passed, she returned to the girl he knew and loved, and the world became dull again. Eliza shot him a look that was near impossible to read.

'Come on, Beilschmidt,' she said in a hard voice. 'You won't get home if you stand around all day like that.' She hauled up another log as though to prove her point, jerking a nod at him. _Home_. That lingering ache sharpened into a cruel stab of longing.

'How- how are they? Roderich, Ludwig, the rest?' Hungary smiled a little, something Gilbert knew he was not meant to see.

'Roderich is Roderich. Give him a sword and he's about as intimidating as a field of flowers, but if you stick him in a stuffy council chamber there's no one more likely to win you a war.' Gilbert nodded. That certainly sounded like Austria. 'Don't know why he prefers it that way, though,' continued Eliza, mumbling to herself. 'At least we can fight in the army and we don't have to waste time with the emperor, mm?'

'I suppose.' His duty as commander of the German troops had always seemed an honour; now, he could not help but feel that the grunt work had been left for him as an insult instead. 'And Lud?'

'Ludwig...oh, he... Gilbert, you know how he is.' Hungary's face was filled with despair, a desperate love and longing, but she managed to smile truly for the first time since they had been reunited. 'You're his hero. He wants to lead a battalion into war, just like you, and he's somehow weaselled his way into having lessons on statecraft with Austria. Nothing and no one can stop that boy.' Gilbert nodded again, warm pride tightening in his chest. Ludwig was the antithesis of him, diligent and dutiful, yet he would make a far superior tactician and fighter when he came of age. 'But...'

'But?' he said blithely, still carried away on memories of his solemn little brother.

'Ludwig intends to fight as a foot soldier- to gain understanding of the troops, he says. And he intends to go with you the next time you ride out to battle.' The look Eliza gave him now was cold, sad, resigned. As quickly as joy had filled Gilbert, dizzying panic and confusion replaced it now.

'No,' he whispered through limp lips. 'You- you have not seen them. The Swedish. They would tear him to shreds, just as they did to thousands upon thousands of our men.' He turned to her imploringly. Fear sent a wave of nausea sweeping over Gilbert, but he forced his composure to remain intact. 'Eliza, please. We have to make him understand.' But she was shaking her head, folding her arms about herself as though she was falling apart.

'He has set his mind on this completely. For him, to fall in battle would be the greatest honour of all.' And then Gilbert knew. _I have failed him. As a brother, as a surrogate parent._ If Ludwig's chiefest desire was to give his life for his country, then it was Gilbert who had failed to teach him the true worth and meaning of that life.

'The Holy Roman Empire- our every hope in this war rides on his safety, his security. I will not risk all of our futures on the wish of one boy.' _No matter how dear he is to me_ , he finished silently. A drop of rain trickled down his back like a finger of ice, and he shivered, struck by premonition and stabbing terror. Elizabeta only shook her head. She was softer now, in the dying of the light, but her eyes were sorrowful.

'You are soft beneath your iron layers, Prussian. No wonder you can never beat me in a fight.' The jibe stung, but it had its intended effect; Gilbert sprang up with renewed vigour.

'You're soft as well, _Hungary_. And who said I could never beat you?' A smile slid at the corners of her lips- then she was away, running, so fast that he barely had time to collect his bearings before she had disappeared into the pearly mists. The hunt. This was one thing that Gilbert knew how to do.

He caught her (or she allowed herself to be caught, more likely) amidst a trapping circle of brambles, so coincidental that he half suspected Eliza had known exactly what this chase of theirs might entail. Gilbert moved closer in, thoughts of brothers and wars and Swedish bastards forgotten in the thrill of their little game, a game that could so easily turn around and come back to bite him. Eliza did not fail him. She leapt up, a swatch of willow appearing in her hand from nowhere, and swiped at Gilbert just as he curled his fingers around a mock-weapon of his own. The distraction was a welcome one. _I have not fought since the day my freedom was stolen from me._ Elizabeta fell into the fight with her usual easy grace, landing every cut to perfection, battering his careful defence so thoroughly that soon her rich laughter resounded through the trees like a chorus of exulting angels. High and low she struck, left and right, faster than any foe he'd faced, so fast that Gilbert was beginning to remember why he lost every time they played like this. At last he took a step back and surveyed her glowing face.

'You're blushing,' he said through breaths, hoping to knock some of her formidable self-command.

'Embarrassment on your part, _szerelmem_. Do you yield?'

'Never.' And so the game continued. They fought until their stick-swords were no more than splinters, collapsing into a heap by the pile of abandoned firewood. Night had fallen at last, taking with it the last of the day's heat, but Gilbert could not have been warmer. Not with this glorious thrumming arife throughout his veins. Eliza was tiring now, edging closer to him as the adrenaline from their fight wore off. He put an arm around her with almost unconscious ease.

'I'm glad you're here with me, even if it's lying exhausted on some forest floor.' She smacked his shoulder for the unintended implication.

'And I suppose I'm glad to be here too, even if it's with an idiot who gets himself captured at the most inopportune moments possible.' They lapsed back into silence, watching the slow progress of the stars with fatigue-round eyes. It had been a good day. _If the discovery of a massacre on our part can be ruled out, that is_. Gilbert shifted uncomfortably, recalling the acrid stench of ash that had lingered even hours after they left the ruined village. He shook the memory away, letting his head drop back into the smooth expanse of Eliza's unbound hair. The dark chestnut mass was pleasantly cool against his skin. So he held onto that, onto her, something alive and real, and prayed for sleep to find him soon. _I have not been this content for a while. Not for weeks._

'You'll be content when you see the rooftops of Prague again,' mumbled Elizabeta into his shoulder, almost as though she had heard him, and she wriggled impossibly closer. Something strong and searing came to life within him. Gilbert reached out, and felt her warm hand in his just as he allowed the night to smother him.

 **The next chapter will be the last one where Prussia appears! it might be a bit late because I have quite a few other writing projects that I haven't worked on in a while but I'll try to get it done within two weeks :)**


	24. Chapter 24

**so sorry for this very, very late update! a combination of things including school, tiredness and general procrastination stopped me from writing this, but I've got a diary now to plan chapters in which will hopefully help. hope you enjoy!**

 **Prague, Winter 1631**

The sunset was just beginning to gild the sloped rooftops of Prague when they arrived, ascending the hill to gaze upon a city bathed in soft golden light. Familiar blue-and-green painted houses appeared hazy and pale in the evening glow, taking the edge off what was one of Gilbert's least favourite places to be, a place he associated with various boredoms and trivialities accumulated over hundreds of years. Eliza drew up beside him, their arms brushing as she stepped forward to survey the city. Even that slightest of touches sent a dull ache echoing through Gilbert's body. The sort of treks he was used to usually involved a fire and a hot bath at the end of the day, not finding the driest patch of moss possible to sleep on, and it had taken an almost immediate toll upon his system. War weighed upon him with all the pounding intensity of a headache. _This is no easy life- no easy thing, to watch men die and know they have fallen for a cause that weakens each day._ The stench and smoke of the city was overwhelming after so long spent away, flooding Gilbert's senses so that his mouth grew dry with anticipation and tears pooled in his eyes, soon batted away by a ribbon of icy wind. For a moment Prague was alight, swallowed by tongues of merciless flame- then he blinked, and the world was set to rights again. _I have dreamt too long of this now._

It had not taken long for silence to shroud the rest of his journey with Hungary. Neither of them were normally given over to taciturnity, a fact which often irked Austria, but it seemed that the conflicting desires to return home and to avoid Emperor Ferdinand's wrath had purged any joy their travels might have held. That and the sores on their feet, the raw ache rooted deep within their bones. All nations came to feel such a pain if they lived for long enough. _I am old at last,_ thought Gilbert with a grimace, _though I may never look it._ He had been solemn during the days, relentless as a mountain goat in his strides, yet the fatigue he felt in waking hours was as good as nonexistent when it came to sleep. At night his mind slipped, wavered, and he found himself entertaining a thousand impossible fantasies. More than once Gilbert had lain by Hungary's side, eyes fixed upon the dark mass of her hair, shot through with dusky gold by the light of the fire, and had dreamt of a world where they ran away from this hell together. He had pictured it all- finding some dark-beamed, low-ceilinged house by a northern lake, where the air was thick with the heady scent of pine needles and red deer were as common in the forests as sparrows. Sharp, cloudless mornings with soft winds and softer silences, waking up beside her in a world that was not torn to shreds by war and the endless duties that came with it.

Gilbert was jerked back to the present by the cool slide of Hungary's hand into his. He glanced sideways at her face, rendered speechless as he always was by its dark flame of beauty, reading only determination in the creases of her lips and eyes. _Lips that I have felt the tenderness of. Eyes that I have gazed into, and seen my own passion reflected there._ Yet now both were hard and set as steel. His fingers curled more firmly into his, and together they stepped further into the city that held the fates of everything they knew and loved.

The house stood as he had always known it, ivy-laced and sun-dappled, about the only place in this godsforsaken city that Gilbert knew any sense of security in. They passed into the courtyard through the small side door, an act of small discreetness that exuded from him a wave of gratitude towards Elizabeta. Neither of them were fond of grandeur when there was no apparent need for it. Gilbert stepped inside, inhaling the familiar aroma of lilies upon the air. They spilled over every surface, bright and heady, and it had been that way for as long as he could remember. Home. He was home. _I should not have brought my blood and smoke and scars and stains to this place._ Returning in victory was one thing, in defeat quite another. The memories of this particular loss would haunt Gilbert until their next triumph, or the one after that (all his nightmares had blurred into one after a century or so).

Vaguely he heard Eliza from behind him saying something about a bath and washing off the stains of the road; her voice was distorted, almost blurred, as though he was listening to her through a wall of water. Yet the scratchily familiar, hovering notes of a tentative violinist from above cut through Gilbert's haze like it was nothing. _Ludwig_ , he thought, and a smile threatened to curve the corners of his mouth. The past flashed in a sudden scene before him. A better time, a safer time, not so long ago, when all he had to worry about was council meetings and the various dull intricacies of a life spent at court. But there were good memories too- watching as Austria put Ludwig through half a dozen different disciplines in music, forcing him through piano, violin and others until the boy became a grudging, but fairly competent musician. Now Gilbert's reverie drew him upstairs, lingering in times not tainted by blood that he may as well have spilt. Hungary's words were drowned in a mixture of fatigue and heartsick longing for the rest of his family.

He stood as he had always stood- rigid, straight-backed, a soldier's stance, too stiff and formal for the boy he should have been. Ludwig's chin was bowed to his instrument, sky-hued eyes fixed determinedly at the sprawl of notes upon his sheet music. _Not a warrior, but a soldier. The soldier I made him._ Gilbert had taken great pride in his days as a swordsman of the Teutonic Knights, yet he had never wished for his brother to follow the same heraldic path. Yet the habit of obedience was ingrained deep within Ludwig's soul all the same. He was taller than when Gilbert had left, thinner as well, with tell-tale dark shadows beneath his eyes that hinted all too obviously at the toll war was taking on him. _My little brother, made of steel and splinters and the straining seams of a whole empire._ Austria stood with folded arms at his side. His expression was as distant and faintly unsettled as ever, perhaps because of the bluish-grey clouds gathering like stormcrows upon the horizon. Both were troubled, yes, but Gilbert had not come to live in the world of his dreams. He had come simply to see his family.

Ludwig's eyes snapped up to meet his own where they had been resting on the window. At once the violin was abandoned, as was his too-serious concentration, and Gilbert held his brother in his arms once again. The jut of his shoulderblades through his shirt was alarming; Gilbert's hands skated over them as he might touch razorblades, cautious and careful. He bit back an exclaimation at just how thin his brother had become. Slowly his eyes came to meet Austria's over Ludwig's shoulder. _I know,_ said that solemn, staid gaze. _I know what our warmongering and constant battles have done to him._

'Gilbert!' said Lud at last when they broke apart. He was beaming, though all Gilbert saw was the almost skeletal cast the fading light lent to the bones of his face. 'We were so worried about you! Roderich seemed convinced you were dead, though, but Eliza insisted you were just an idiot who didn't know his place.' His voice was careful and well-mannered, but still layered with the bursting excitement of a child.

'I'm here now,' Gilbert murmured. The smile that had sprung to his face so quickly now felt forced, stretched tight with the tension of too many truths left unspoken. 'I'm here now.' It was all he could think of to say.

'I hate to break up the happy reunion, but the emperor is requesting our presence upstairs.' He twisted round to see Eliza framed in the doorway. Her face was reserved, dull; she never looked so dour, not without good reason. A stone of sudden panic sunk low into Gilbert's stomach.

After an almost inhumanely short bath, in which Gilbert had been disgusted at just how much dirt he had accumulated during the past few days, he was dressed in the usual unnecessary finery that court decorum dictated and was on his way to meet Emperor Ferdinand's summons. Their wing of the castle might have been large, considering their high status, but that was nothing compared to the luxurious apartments that the emperor kept. The severe yellow-and-black crested banners did nothing to settle his nerves. Gilbert winced inwardly as he pictured the onslaught of insults and disapproval no doubt waiting for him; _survive this,_ he told himself, _and I can survive a thousand more years fighting the damned Swedish army._

'Enter,' called a low, stern voice from within. He was reminded of a knife scraping against stone, painful and grating. The four of them did as they were bid. Ferdinand's eyes roved over them for a few agonising seconds, resting on Gilbert with a burning rage. 'Sit.' The single word hissed through the room like a snake's warning before it struck; they were all too quick to comply. Their solemn-faced leader sat as well, shaking out long embroidered sleeves before he began to speak again. 'I thank you for returning this mindless fool,' he said to Hungary in tones that were anything but thankful. 'Only the saints know what might have transpired, were he left to spew all of our secrets to the barbarian king of the north.' Much to Gilbert's horror, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. _But this is all a joke, isn't it? The emperor's game, disguised as a formality._ He hurried to suppress his bout of humour, for once cursing the thick skin that centuries of insults had earnt him.

The emperor's eyes darted with startling speed to Ludwig, who had up until now kept his silence in meek and bowed-head fashion. He hid his squeak of terror behind a cough, face flushing an unflattering crimson colour. 'You seem remarkably fretful for an empire, boy,' said the emperor in those same level and icy tones.

'I am sorry, my lord-'

'It is your duty to remain strong and watchful for the sake of this realm. I do not place my trust lightly; you must earn it. Do you understand?' Ludwig nodded, casting a glance down at the table. All his practiced valour and careful respect had been dashed away- he was merely a boy in that moment, young and terrified. A spike of loathing rose up in Gilbert's throat. _He presumes to understand the role a nation must play_. Yet there were a choice few who alone could comprehend what such a life meant, and Emperor Ferdinand would never be one of them. _One of the chosen few._ Though lately it had begun to feel more like a curse than anything. Gilbert bit his tongue to keep the insults from flooding out, and felt his fists clenching from the exertion. Hungary's piercing gaze swept over him, but still he said nothing. It was a conversation for another time- very soon, if he knew anything of her at all.

'This war has slipped from our control,' began Ferdinand again, having moved on from shaming them at last. 'The loss against Sweden may prove damning to our cause- other, less powerful nations will see that we have weaknesses, no matter how small. Our reputation as the main strength in this conflict is already damaged.' He paused there, casting another one of his stony gazes down the length of the table. The urge to break something rose alive and well somewhere in Gilbert's mind. 'If these northmen are not contained soon- I will allow less than a quarter of the year for this- then we have no choice but to turn to negotiations. Holding onto whatever lands we can, establishing good relations with the Swedish king, doing anything it takes to keep this empire whole.'

A cold silence gripped the room. Ludwig's terror was almost palpable; only a boy, yet his life rested on the line at the mercy of desperation.

'You will take charge of any negotiations that may arise,' continued the emperor, gesturing towards Austria. Mild relief broke out over Austria's face, and he nodded, some of the tension in his shoulders loosening. _Not a position I'd take, but I suppose it's better than being hacked to pieces by an angry Viking,_ thought Gilbert resignedly. It was almost embarrassing, being forced to wait like a child to hear what end their dear leader had devised for him. 'Hedervary, it is Commander Wallenstein's wish that you remain at his side as second-in-command of the main bulk of our forces. You will return to this position within the week.'

'Yes, my lord,' said Hungary in a voice that barely concealed her grudging acceptance. Wallenstein was a boorish idiot of a man, especially for a commander- the only reason his troop had won any renown was with Eliza quietly operating everything from behind the figurative curtain. Still, Gilbert was glad to see her back as a leader once more.

'And you.' The disdain in Ferdinand's voice was light, careless. For the first time since entering the room, Gilbert dared to look him directly in the eyes. They were dark, determined, like pools of writhing black fire, terrible and almost demonic. _Thrones and crowns of gold drive them all mad in the end._ 'With regards to your previous failure against the Swedish army, I am assigning you to a handpicked troop with one purpose- to destroy those very Swedes. You are not to meet them in open battle, but to pick them off few by few, doing whatever it may require to ensure that our enemies are weakened when the true battle comes.' Gilbert's nod came merely from habit; in his head, he was reliving his previous encounters with Sweden and Finland a thousand times over. The panic, the frantic fear that came with losing to such an opponent. An unbidden thought invaded Gilbert's mind: _armies sent to destroy other armies need not return home, but only complete their duty._

Slowly his gaze rose again. The emperor's eyes were blank but intense, detached, as though he had been planning this very command for months. _A suicide mission,_ Gilbert realised with desperation. He knew that death should not trouble him, not as a nation. Yet Sweden and Finland would do all in their power to ensure that he did not return from the grave. And then the swords were scraping at him again, his blood and a thousand others' sprayed his skin, screams filled his ears in the unholiest of choirs-

Gilbert's mouth was utterly dry. He turned to Austria, to Hungary, finding them only despairing but helpless. Then his eyes moved to Ludwig- to the brother he could no longer protect, the brother whose very life depended on Gilbert's own success- and one thought conquered all the rest. _Protect him._

 **Copenhagen, Winter 1631**

The days following King Christian's private proclaimation were grim ones, constantly overshadowed by the knowledge that another war would be brewing on the horizon sooner or later. Norway, referring to the decades of battle experience drummed into him by other kings, knew that to fight back at the nature of such things was an unwise decision. So if Christian's fate was to never again triumph in another war, to go to his grave without the satisfaction of one final victory, then that should not be contested. Yet an anticipation like no other Norway had known was growing in the uncertain half of his mind. An anticipation that this time would be different- that now, its outcome would decide the very fate of his land for decades to come. _Not that it was never that way._ He had thought long and deep upon the matter, during the black nights of winter when he should have been asleep, throughout all the menialities of the day until Norway's mind was consumed with the path that he did not know which way to turn upon.

Now he walked in pensive silence, stalking down shadow-scarred Copenhagen streets in the restless stance of a former warrior. A former warrior whose musings remained very much in the past; even right there and then, were Norway to close his eyes and let his memories flood forth, he knew would taste an enemy's blood upon his tongue, would feel an irrepressible and guttural shout rising from deep within his throat. The wind lashed his hair against his face in struggling strips of pale blond. He brushed them away with a distracted hand, focused more upon the meandering route his feet had decided to follow that morning. The other hand rested upon the hilt of his elaborately wrought dagger, (a weapon for show; it could cause no true damage) though Norway doubted he would be attacked. This was the hour of street scum and fishermen, men of work both honest and less so, and it was unlikely that they would mark the slight, dark-robed figure pacing past as a target of any sort. One of the procedures that the king had put into place to raise funds for his final war was the raising of the Sound tolls on the Øresund. As a result, most dock workers were better paid, and it was easier to find jobs by the harbourside.

Norway came to a pause at the edge of a winding street, leaning against the pale brick of some fishing cottage. He breathed in slowly, carefully, savouring the myriad of familiar scents that floated upon the sea air. Copenhagen was bustling and busy by day, the merchant and fish trades acting as its backbone; by night it became a city of low lights and soft winds, an elixir that drew in wandering souls such as his own. _Wandering or merely wondering?_ thought Norway, and he gave a wry smile at his own joke. He had taken to traipsing through the town whenever his schedule allowed, sometimes trailing a more animated Denmark or Iceland by his side, and always spared a moment to stop and gather his thoughts. But the process of recollection was a fickle one. Often he found himself calm, departed from a world of constant dull pressure to serve these twin realms in any way he could- and then it could all be snatched away without due warning.

It began thus: perhaps a boat would glide past, something harmless carrying cargo silks. And Norway would be swept away by old desires, longing for the sway of a deck beneath his feet, bearing him to sweet victory. Or maybe he would glimpse the far-off spray of pine trees upon the horizon, and suddenly his blood would be calling out for the rough shorelines of home and the northern mountains from which he hailed. Norway conceded that he had become restless- how could he not? _But I will not allow myself to fall prey to a war constructed by the political needs of one man,_ he thought wearily. The courtier's game was tangled and entwined to such a degree that Norway saw no point in unravelling it. All he had to do was slice through it, relatively speaking.

A drop of rain wormed its way through the smothering layer of Norway's cloak and down his back, sending an involuntary shiver across the length of his spine. He straightened up, shaking stray rainfall from his hair, and decided that this was as good a sign as any that he should return home.

The rain was still falling the next day, beating a constant drum onto the roof until Norway's head rang with the dullness of the sound. He and Denmark had been cooped up in the king's council chamber room since at least midday, awaiting a visitor whose lateness was so lengthy that it was beginning to verge upon the disrespectful. Not that Norway cared particularly for decorum in such a situation; they were awaiting an envoy from the Netherlands, whose government had been understandably piqued by the incrementationion of the Sound tolls. He was in half a mind to let them have their reduction and be done with it, damn the king. _Damn this whole business._ But on the other hand, the sooner they raised this accursed blood money, the sooner the figurative war would be over, and they could settle into the next century of pain. Norway's more logical side urged him to take the second option, no matter how much the rest of his was protesting against it. Denmark had not opted to support either side of the argument. For him, this was no more than annoyance, an order from the king that he was unwilling but resigned to following.

Now he paced ceaselessly back and forth before the window, the clap of his shoes against the waxed wooden floors drilling into Norway's brain until his skull ached. He rubbed at his temples with the points of two fingers, silently cursing this Dutch envoy and his lateness. _No doubt the whole thing will turn out to be a waste of time._

'Perhaps we should give them the money they ask for,' he said in a weary voice, more to put a stop to Denmark's pacing than anything else. 'The king can be persuaded out of this war if we try hard enough.' It was a futile attempt at changing course; they both knew it. 'He has had a successful reign, surely he can be content with that?' Just as expected, Denmark paused in his strides to shoot a miserable glance in Norway's direction. Weak light from the half-curtained window gave his face a grey and disconsolate cast.

'After everything we've done, it can't hurt us much to help one man underline his name in the history books. What's another two, three years?' _Three years spent away from Iceland and our home._ Denmark would feel the same longing for home as Norway when the time came, but his foresight at realising it was rather less refined. Something sharp and unpleasant pierced through his concentration. And his confusion must have shown, as for a second time Denmark stopped to face him.

'What is it? You think our kingdom won't make it through this war?' He said it with such conviction that Norway knew the thought had entered Denmark's mind long ago, stewing away until he could project his fears elsewhere. _Yet I cannot pretend that I do not have the same fear._ It often plagued him at night- their land, their livelihood, snatched away by the stronger claws of other empires, home and family and more divided up for whichever countries were powerful enough to earn a piece.

'Everything we have built, rebuilt- I would not lose it without a fight at the very least.' _And I will not risk it all merely to satisfy the pride of one man,_ he thought with sudden venom. Complacency was a constant threat: in their wealth, their security, the very future of their kingdom. The last thing Norway wanted was to lose everything on the grounds of his simply not being cautious enough. He ran a hand through his hair, horrified at how fast and fluttering the beats of his heart had become. Outside rain lashed against the glass panes, its every drop a vicious strike, and still Norway's head would not clear. The chaise lounge sank slightly as Denmark edged onto it beside him. A tentative smile flickered across his face; he was a ghost, shadowed in former glory and harrowed by the weight of its memory. Several moments passed. Norway felt the silence like a thick, foul mist in the air, hung with words left unsaid and uncertainty scarring the dull drumbeat of rain on tiled roofs.

'If we are conquered,' began Denmark, and Norway thought _no, enough, please._ But still his learned patience was determined to struggle through. 'If this goes to shit like it probably will and we can't hold onto our land, then I won't let us be captured.' His tone was blank, matter-of-fact.

'What else can we do?'

'Run. Take Iceland, go somewhere so far north that no servant of the Holy Roman Empire would ever find us.' Denmark's face softened and grew wistful as he spoke. 'We'd fade eventually, of course. But at least we'd fade together.' A short rasp of laughter escaped Norway- _fade together_ was such a poetic phrase, so ridiculously romantic and so utterly Denmark that it almost hurt to think about. _Oh, my love, so innocent even after all these years. So hopeful._

'Then we'll fade together.' And it was worth every inch of the forced grin to see Denmark smile in return.

It was resilience, not dread, that overwhelmed Norway when a carriage bearing the Dutch coat of arms drew up at last in the courtyard. That resilience soured the second their envoy stepped into King Christian's marbled entrance hall. He was tall, loftily so, with not a hair out of place, face stern and even scornful as he surveyed the castle. The expression of disdain was one Norway recognised well from numerous meetings and negotiations.

'Jan,' he greeted him coldly, taking a bitter pleasure in the irritation that crossed Netherlands' face. Netherlands nodded cursorily, dismissing his companions with a careless flick of the hand. It was then that Norway knew this negotiation would be no typical sit-and-talk affair.

'I presumed it would be better us to speak freely as nations,' he said in brusque tones. 'Any... _irregularities_ can be smoothed over more easily this way.'

'Of course,' said Denmark, taking the diplomatic route. He ushered Netherlands into the council chamber with a winning smile that garnered no reaction whatsoever. The fire had been sputtering and dying beforehand, and now Norway rued his decision to not add any more coal to it. _A cold room and a cold reception, how fitting._ At least perhaps Netherlands would have to suffer a little Nordic chill.

'I have no particular care nor respect for the leaders of my country,' began their visitor. 'I am here for the sole reason why any of us nations exist- to protect and represent my land in its time of need.' It must have been a dull life indeed if that was his only reason for existence. 'So I implore you, as one nation to two others, to lower the tolls on your Øresund River. I can assure you, it will bring both our realms great prosperity if my wishes are followed.' His words might have been sincere, but still that disdainful stare remained, still was there ice edging his voice, and Norway felt a natural distrust rising up inside him. _He is in this purely for himself. It is not his intention that we should benefit as well._ Thankfully Denmark appeared to have realised this too, albeit in a somewhat more roundabout manner.

'As one nation to another,' he repeated scathingly, and only Norway was able to recognise the concealed indecision in his voice. 'You are desperate, begging on a final whim. This is no ordered negotiation, merely a wasting of our time.' Netherlands' face became something truly withering.

'I do not _beg_ ,' he said, steel and ice and sharp stone all at once. 'I demand. I order.' His scowl seemed to settle more permanently, if that were indeed possible. 'And I anticipate that a day will come in the future when this world of ours is a little less barbaric, a little more ordered, and suddenly we must look to our allies. Betrayal will become easier and easier- it is best to form alliances now, whilst we still can.' Netherlands reached for the flagon of wine on the sideboard, uninvited, and poured himself a healthy measure. He took a long sip before continuing. 'I speak of nations such as England and France. They have warred almost constantly over the centuries, yet those who know them well understand that things between the two have never been closer.' Evidently he was one of those honoured few; there were not many worse things that Norway could think of than to be reacquainted with England's stubborn personality. 'Poland and Lithuania, Spain and Italy- why, even the two of you.' A slow smile crept over Netherlands' face. _He is enjoying this,_ realised Norway with vague irritation. Beside him Denmark shifted a little, sensitive as he had ever been to any attempt to pry into the life he and Norway shared. 'Unions such as yours are always strengthened by personal relationships. Countries and armies will tear each other apart like lions and fight to keep all of the spoils, yet it is still possible for nations to maintain friendships.'

Norway gave into his need for relief and reached for the flagon, consuming a glassful in small sips until some of the pounding in his skull had eased off. He pondered as he drank, mulling over each of Netherlands' words, sensing Denmark's rising frustration at his side. The conclusion ordered itself in his head just as he set down the empty glass.

'Nation and country alike will fight to survive,' he said, gazing up at last. 'Those who cannot stand strong alone will never survive, and that renders all allies useless in the end.'

'And you would not have survived the past several centuries without the backing of Denmark, yet there you sit, spouting dangerous words with no true sting in them.' Norway had anticipated that retort the moment he opened his mouth; he had also anticipated Denmark's reaction, which was to attempt some sort of reproach before being cut off.

'I know your type,' continued Netherlands, drowning out Denmark. 'Well-meaning, even practical, but led solely by your heart. It's an honourable thing. I myself grow tired of logical decisions every once in a while.' He grinned cruelly again. Then one finger was pointed at Norway, and all his careful deliberations had been blown away before he could so much as say another word. 'To him,' said Netherlands. 'That's where your heart leads you, every time. A shame, really.' And then Norway understood. Understood fully, and cursed himself for a fool of the highest order. _He came here to see what sort of allies we might be for him._ Denmark, always so obvious in his affections, had dashed that alliance in the pan as soon as he leapt to defend Norway.

Netherlands poured, drank, poured drank. The wine hardly seemed to slur his wits; instead, he was brighter, sharper, a cunning trickster rather than a cold man of business.

'Perhaps Sweden and Finland will be more accommodating of my terms, perchance? It is only a short trip after all.' He stood, offering a brief and mocking toast before the door slammed shut behind him. The sound echoed around their heads like the damning thud of a death knell. Silence surrounded them, stagnant and stolid. Then a tapping rattle started up- but it was only Denmark, who did not appear to notice the almost obsessive rap of his fingers upon the tabletop.

'Was he right?' said Norway quietly. 'That your heart will always lead you to me?' Too late did he realise the utter futility of the question. The silence resumed around them, smothering. 'I do not believe in intuition as a rule,' he muttered after a moment, when the deafening noise of no words spoken clamoured around his head. 'Only choices.' _And that is the exact difference between us._

'Then you made the right choice,' said Denmark softly, unexpectedly. Norway's head came up; their eyes met. Something he saw there spoke to him, spoke what he had known for so many years now, what he supposed could never really be a secret for long. No more words were needed. Gratitude welled within him- took root, sprouted. No more was needed.

 **shitty ending is shitty**


	25. Chapter 25

**chapter 25! who knows how many more? I'm estimating around 30ish, if you all stick around that is :) thank you for your feedback and support, and I hope you enjoy! (lmao prob a bit less than 30 but who knows)**

 **Winter 1631, Swedish camp in Leipzig**

In years to come, Sweden would look back upon this time and reminisce that his growing power had never been more turbulent, nor more dangerous. He could feel it coming in waves and bursts, suffused with adrenaline after every fresh victory. The encounter with Prussia was no more than a fading embarrassment to him now. It had been a fatal error, admittedly, being caught by such obvious and goading bait, but Sweden knew he would only become the better for it. He had sworn to himself every night since their enemy's escape that he would be stronger, more resilient, a true and cold empire of the north. _The words of others are no more than wind._ Like wind he let them brush past; harmless, barely even there. Instead he let his frustration burn into vengeance, picturing the day when Prussia would at last kneel before the mightier swords of Scandinavia. And if he would not submit, then Sweden was only too happy to dispose of an untamed hound. _Burn the body, scatter the ashes, make sure the job's done._ Prussia would not rise again as he had let Norway do so.

King Gustavus had done his best to smoke out the proverbial rats, ordering the army to loot and burn a nearby village. A warning sign, an attempt to find their escaped prisoner- it did not matter what the truth was. Sweden had felt nothing but a sudden and searing need to ride victorious again, to experience the same thrill of a triumph won in blood and sweat that he had known so many times in the days of his youth. Now, recalling that day of death and destruction, the powerful and indomitable urge to fight that had overcome him almost nullified the violent acts they undertook. _It was for the king that those people died, for the Swedish cause._ And it had only seemed more right with Finland at his side this time. Sweden had not realised he had a point to prove, not until he glanced over at Finland after the day was done, firelight turning the blood smeared across his face crimson-gilt. It was only then that he knew it- Finland's opinion was all that mattered to him, the thing that had meant most throughout all of the centuries of their lives together. _Because it is the only opinion that will endure._ To make him proud- to see him smile, even if only for a second- was worth more than a thousand empires and more.

Their unexpected prevailment had garnered a good deal of interest from the rest of Europe, namely central powers who until then been ruled under the iron fist of the Holy Roman Emperor. _All they want is guidance,_ Sweden knew. A leader less tyrannical to turn to. King Gustavus, being the schemer he was, thought it prudent to make the most of this sudden spike in popularity. Quietly, creeping in like smoke under the door, rumours began to spread around the Holy Roman Empire. Lord Wallenstein intended to join forces with the Protestants, it was whispered. The French king had already negotiated an alliance with Gustavus. Emperor Ferdinand himself planned to sue for peace within the year. There was a grain of truth in most of them, enough that the Catholic lords and princes began to waver in their loyalties. Or so the king's spiders told him; he had enough spies in every major European household that their secrets might as well have been laid bare for the entire Swedish court to pick over. Already they had secured support from several princes of poverty-stricken Anshalt, a negotiation so easy that it seemed no more than a cordial conversation. That at least had been simple. Sweden knew that it would culminate into something bigger with time, a burgeoning strength that kept the fire behind his eyes burning.

So he was hardly surprised when news arrived at their camp of the council being held in Halle. The city was a small one, not so far from their current location outside of Leipzig- _out of Ferdinand's sight,_ Sweden had thought as soon as the news came. They departed in grandeur, draped in all the pomp and ceremony that a king's column required. Every soldier's armour was polished to the highest sheen, tossing back the weak winter sunlight so that it dazzled and glittered; the baggage carts were covered with rich navy Persian rugs embroidered with Sweden's leaping lion; the king and his closest advisors trailed cloaks of the finest royal blue behind them, riding past resplendent through lands that they had conquered and claimed and burnt. Sweden forced himself not to squint as a ray of sunlight shifted to fall upon the lenses of his glasses. As ever, his wandering gaze came to rest upon Finland, and he did not even attempt to restrain the flickering grin that crept over his face. They had done this together, built an empire on nothing but ragged hope and blurred dreams- and here, now, in this premature winter sun, every one of their sacrifices had paid itself back in kind. _Is this worth it?_ he had asked himself so many times in the early days. The answer was obvious now.

Field workers and farmers would stop to ogle the procession as they rode, eyes peering out in curiosity from dirt-streaked faces. Their work-roughened hands, their shrewd honest faces, reminded Sweden of the villagers he had slain that fateful day after Prussia's escape. Something hot and unpleasant tightened in the middle of his chest. He never took a step unless its every risk was calculated, and this had initially appeared to be the same case. _Yet I could not have anticipated this regret, this pain._ For Sweden, said King Gustavus. For our noble cause. That should have been enough, but still guilt wracked Sweden every time he thought of it. _We'll have to win this war, then._ That seemed just enough, though it was a twisted, perverted image of justice that he appealed to. Now Sweden gazed out at the villagers who had come to see their train of glory, remembering suddenly that they were passing through the lands of their new Anshalt allies. Some cheered for their overlords, and the liberation they were bringing, whilst others were merely content to stare in bewilderment at the foreigners. He heard a few shouts of ' _Schweden!'_ , and a second small smile slipped from his lips. At the head of the column, the king raised a hand in salute, prompting more cheers.

 _'Schweden! Schweden!'_ The shout swelled and rose, bursting into a roar that filled Sweden from top to toe with a tingling warmth. It had been years since he had heard the same cry from the throats of his own people, most of their wars having been fought in the drier, hotter wastes of the rest of Europe. But this- this was different. A placing of trust. An assurance that they would win freedom back for these people. Even after the yells had long since faded away into the darkening sky, the same warm pride still filled him, and he rode the long and lonely path to Halle with hope alive in his heart.

 **Halle, Northwestern Germany, 1631**

Their arrival was hailed by a bitter, frost-chilled morning with a sky as sharp and unblemished as steel. Too sharp for Sweden's fledgling hopes, too cold for Finland's eternal sunshine; such unforgiving weather would not bode well for this meeting, if they believed in such omens. Sweden's eyes watered behind his mist-fogged glasses as they rode through the high iron gates, and it was difficult not to reach up and wipe away the stinging sensation. It did not help that his heart was beating so intensely that there might as well have been a snare drum ensconced within his chest. Such was its fretful force, a numbing ache began to spread through Sweden's chest, clenching at his throat until it was all he could do not to burst out in a coughing fit from the pain. _Almost as though my younger, weaker self has come back to haunt me._ If so, then it was at perhaps the most inopportune moment possible. The empire-fit resilience that he had built up nudged at him like a shaming reminder, telling Sweden that he could not lose everything this time. That he could not survive another defeat.

'Sve.' Finland's voice came soft at his side, dropping a brief pool of calm into his nerves. 'This is your moment.' He turned to see Finland smiling gently at him, the pale winter sun turning the wheat-and-flaxen shades of his hair to burnished gold. An angel framed in gilt and ice; a soothing presence that disguised layers of razor-sharp intent. 'If this goes as planned, it will be your turn to write a chapter in history. One that favours Sweden. No one, nothing, can take that away from you.' Sweden pictured the room full of disapproving faces that awaited him within these walls, and was forced to swallow his terror down for a second time.

'I would be nowhere without you,' he whispered, unable to raise his voice to much of a louder volume. A fond and crooked smile spilt Finland's previously concerned countenance. He let his gloved hand brush over Sweden's arm- every finger sending a delicious tremble through him- and rode forth to meet their fate with all of the boldness that he had possessed since the first day they met.

A low rumble of voices sounded from the other side of the door, and Sweden cast a nervous glance at his king. Gustavus was unruffled as ever in such situations, face blank and impassive. _Our entrance will be imposing,_ he had promised. _Sufficient to wither any presumptous ideas these German lords might have_. And, as Sweden took the first few steps into the soaring-ceiled council chamber, it seemed as though the king's word was as good as it had ever been. The murmuring and muttering was extinguished like a candle in the wind. Sweden was horribly aware of how loudly his shoes were rapping against the floor, (Italian marble; most impressive) but he did not falter once. He reached his chair with no great incident, stopping just before it when the assembled lords and princes rose to their feet. King Gustavus surveyed them all with his customary knife-sharp gaze. Like two pools of merciless steel, those eyes, and many a man better than Sweden had quailed before them. To their credit, none of the nobility present displayed any outward signs of fear; they remained straight-faced, deferential, and took their seats a decorum-dictated second after the king took his own. _And so the snake pit opens up,_ thought Sweden with a shiver of dull anticipation. It was easy to see how this seating configuration had been planned. The Swedish king presiding over all, Sweden as his most trusted confidante to the right, the Elector of Saxony at his left. Butter-golden light spilled out from a small circular window above, illuminating the three most vital faces of the Protestant cause.

'My lords,' began Gustavus. His tone was impeccably polite, smooth and measured. Not even a hint of tension could be found in the stern and focused planes of his face. 'I thank you all for coming, not least in times of caution and distrust such as these. It is my sincere wish that every man at this table shall come to have faith in the others. This faith will come in time, and only if you are all prepared to cooperate.' His words were carefully chosen, avoiding insult but laying out the threat bare and unveiled. _Do as I bid you, and only then will all be well._ 'Each of us shall lay out his terms for this war, and they will be discussed primarily in this council. Mine are as follows: we stall the invasion of Prague for as long as necessary, and instead capture a number of other major cities in the empire to limit the Emperor's territory, before this conflict is brought to a close. That is all.' He inclined his head a little, inviting the next speaker.

Sweden observed in silence as the others took it in turns to outline their wishes. It occurred to him that he and Finland were the only nations present, the only representatives of a kingdom that were not noble or elected otherwise. Though he did not doubt that some of these men would know of their existence; lives such as theirs were irrevocably entwined with the monarchy and court life, whether they liked it or not. _Bound by ties of blood and pain that only strengthen as the centuries slip by._ That fact alone shifted the tides of power subtly in the kingdom of Sweden's direction; to have the force and vigour of two nations accompanying every strategy was worth more than a thousand soldiers. Though some of the other attendees did not seem to have realised it. The Elector in particular had adopted a rather aggressive stance, steepling his hands together so that they pointed upwards like a knife and staring down each man with those deep-set dark eyes of his. Sweden performed a scan of his own, half-listening to the conversation whilst the majority of his focus was fixated elsewhere. _The eyes are the most vulnerable part, that is for certain._ Much could be gleaned from even the most fleeting of glances.

Some were avaricious, grasping, and they spoke of the great riches that there were to be found in Prague. Ripe for the taking, they argued, and no better time to pluck the fruit than now. Others appeared a little more cautious. They sat back, tasting the oak-matured French wine with a sort of affected nonchalance, smirks quirking their mouths if someone made a comment they deemed to be ill-informed. Snakes, men who saw nothing but how this situation or that might benefit them. Untrustworthy beyond a doubt. And there were men such as Sweden had once been, honest, open-hearted fools who were disinclined to believe any ill rumours they heard, loyal to a fault and beyond. Men who would be torn apart in a lion's den such as this. _But I survived,_ thought Sweden grimly, _I ran my course through fate's maze of death and I came out alive_. Changed, of course, sterner and stonier, but all the better for it. It was easy to read tales in someone's eyes. Eyes that he'd seen countless times over the years, here again to haunt him. Only this time Sweden knew how to conquer them.

King Gustavus' chair scraping against the marble floor jerked him back to the present. A silence fell that was even more steely and smothering that the one at their entrance, if that were possible.

'When I first ventured into this conflict, embittered by my kingdom's wars in Poland, I did not expect to arrive at the position I currently find myself in,' he began again, endowing the listeners with a kingly little bow of the head. 'And I did not expect to gain so many allies, so many willing additions to the Protestant cause that Denmark-Norway failed in dramatic fashion. This can be accredited in part to every man sat here.' That earned him a few inclines of the head in return, and a lemon-pucker smile from the Elector. 'But I am not complacent, my friends, far from it. I will not remain satisfied in this manner.' That was certainly true, reflected Sweden, remembering a time several decades ago when this very same king had ridden his army across ice to escape from the Danish forces. 'Only with your continued support shall we be able to maintain this most unexpected, most welcome glory. Every man who stands with me will not be forgotten when it comes to the end.' Those last two words hung in the air, shivering. _And indeed, what sort of end shall we meet?_

'Here is my vision,' continued Gustavus, and now a note of true delight entered his voice, for this was the moment that it had taken twenty years to reach. 'A Swedish-German empire, all of our kingdoms united in glory under one banner, the new terror of the Northern seas.'

 _'Dominium maris baltici_ ,' came Finland's voice, quiet as falling mist. His tone was not a sanguine one. For those three words- softened by the Latin pronounciation, bundled up in various treaties to take the sting out of them- meant everything that they had won and fought for and lost and done the same again for almost three hundred years. The root of their feud with Denmark and Norway; the reason why Estonia and Lithuania still plagued them to this day.

'We shall have the Baltic too,' murmured back Sweden. 'We shall have anything we care to take,' he said, whispering beneath the king's continued speech.

'Trade control in Europe will belong to Sweden and to the loyal Protestant states of the Holy Roman Empire,' Gustavus was saying. 'Our religion will be the sole religion, our laws the rule of the land. United, the Catholics of Spain will crumble before us. Denmark-Norway's attempt at conquering was no more than the failure of an estranged brother land-' His eyes flickered to Sweden knowingly- '-and I swear that we shall be more successful.' Another pause, another silence. Nothing but the heavy weight of dreams hanging in the air. 'If this alliance prevails, my friends, then the North will be ours. Europe will be ours. That is all.' He took his seat again, eyes bright as his gaze flashed upwards to capture the others' faces. Complete, unanimous veneration- even the Elector of Saxony seemed to have forgotten his facade of indifference. This king was a rallier, a speech-maker of the finest kind, and his words had struck a chord deep within. _Thor send us strength,_ prayed Sweden, and for the first time since his old gold-tinged glory days, it appeared as though that might just come to pass.

From there, the train of speeches dissolved into animated discussion, and arguments coated with the well-bred gloss of lords and princes. The strategy that King Gustavus had devised back in Stockholm was proving to be a controversial one. Cut through southwestern Germany, he proposed, looting any town unfortunate enough to find itself in their path, then capture the city of Vienna and leave Emperor Ferdinand with his hands tied. A plan of striking simplicity upon paper; these German nobles were picking it apart like rats in a pile of string. Many of them advised caution against such a bold route. Count Tilly was situated in the northwest, they declared with untuous smiles, and to ride directly to Vienna was to ride just where the Catholic forces wanted them. Sweden remembered Count Tilly- a small, rather rodent-like man, with bulging grey eyes that watered like an overflowing fountain- remembered the way his infantry had shattered and fled before the Swedish cavalry, and decided that it was a risk more than worth taking.

'But,' said the Elector of Saxony when the tension was particularly rancid, 'I have here a letter from Sweden's own financer. A man who has, perhaps wisely, deigned to remain nameless.' That last part was for their benefit alone. A searing, smoking sensation crept its way onto Sweden's face. 'He implored me to make King Gustavus see reason, to abandon these thoughts of war in Tilly's territory and fabricate a more nuanced strategy. The costs of this expedition alone are astronomical.' The silence that blanketed the room now was of a different ilk; smothering, disquieted, heavy with indecision.

'I would not argue that they are astronomical,' said the king in a muted voice. He knitted his long scarred fingers together, and only Sweden to his right glimpsed the troubled sheen of sweat gleaming on the back of his neck. 'An investment of this sort will pay itself back in kind a thousand times over, perhaps more. Profits from southern Germany will finance us all for decades to come, and our heirs once we are no longer on this earth. This expedition is daring, yes, but if executed correctly then it means security. Safety. Freedom from oppression.' Once again the opposing voices lapsed into submission, and Sweden heaved an inward sigh of relief that King Gustavus' authority had not been shaken. At his side Finland was idle, eyes roving glassily over the dewdrop-glowing chandelier. It was a practiced torpor, though; the drumming of his fingers upon the table was systematic, rhythmic.

'But what of our finances now?' protested someone from further down the table in a tentative voice. 'We have little money, few resources, and no one is willing to finance a foreign war.' Others took up the argument, added their own voices to swell the discussion.

'That is an issue that shall be resolved in due course,' said Gustavus. He spoke softly, mildly, as though not wanting to offend, though his face had taken upon a pensive cast that suggested otherwise. _I do not suffer fools gladly,_ he had said once, a young king pushed into adulthood by the wars swamping his kingdom. The same held true after almost twenty years. 'You-' he indicated the unfortunate man who had thought to counter his words- '-will cover the western flank, capturing minor towns there and warding off any attempts at conflict that Count Tilly may send our way, though I doubt he has the forces or the nerve to try.' He dispatched a good half a dozen others in this manner, assigning them roles of apparent importance as a guise for ridding himself of lickspittles and flatterers. _A shield is forming- our German allies the ring of iron around the outside, and we the tempered wood caught within_. Whether or not that iron ring held fast was another matter entirely.

Sweden had just begun to thing that he had endured this ordeal particularly well, when the weight of a cold and familiar hand dropped onto his shoulder. An equally chilled weight submerged his stomach. Mingling dread and disappointment raised a lump in his throat, and it took no small effort to resist the urge to throw off the king's hand.

'There is someone I need you to meet.' He nodded, ducked his head low- obeyed as he always did.

He and Finland were ushered into a side room that was somewhat less pleasant than the richly appointed council chamber; the floor's bare flagstones added a certain air of austerity, and a piercing wind rattled the windows so that they shook and shuddered against their frames. Silhouetted in front of the bleak northern sky was their mysterious visitor. He turned around, and the past flooded Sweden in all its sharp and nostalgic glory. The last time they met- _almost twenty years ago,_ he thought with a shiver- Gustavus had been a sullen-faced young king, and Sweden's ambition for an empire was based on nothing more than dreams. Netherlands put out his hand, his smile almost sincere. Sweden shook it with somewhat more than a few reservations. He followed suit with Finland, nodding jovially at them both as his narrowed eyes flitted around the room. That was Jan's way; to be unsubtle in his opinions and threats, then to strike with deadly secrecy when the foe least expected it.

'I must say I was pleased to hear of your rising fortunes in this world,' he said, as though he had played some part in it. 'Perhaps this time the north will be gifted an empire of true puissance.' Jan crossed to the other end of the room, abandoning his travel-stained cloak on a nearby chair to gaze from the clouded window. 'I have just returned from a most unsatisfactory meeting in Copenhagen,' he added casually. 'My fellow negotiators were rather opposed to any sort of agreement, it seemed.' Sweden's heart leapt, sending a aching spike of fear through his chest. This was no friendly meeting between nations. This was no chance exchange, but a planned and plotted manipulation, a trap that he had walked into willingly. Any trust- though such a thing was rare when it came to dealing with Netherlands- was long fled by now. Netherlands' brow furrowed as he turned to scrutinise Sweden. His stare was piercing, uncomfortably so, with the aura that he was stripping away every layer of Sweden's skin to expose the flaws nestled deep within him. 'I said this to your dear brother,' continued Jan in conversational tones. 'I implored him to understand that I would join this war only for the good of my country, I appealed to Norway's rather more sensible view of the world as well. Neither wanted to listen for long.'

'So that's what you're here for?' said Finland quietly. 'To tell us that you're prepared to betray us if it'll save your land?'

'I am more than happy to remain loyal to King Gustavus through any turmoils, as long as my people are rewarded adequately whenever the government see fit. You understand the setbacks of this modern arrangement, of course.' Sweden's head nodded in automatic compliance. Netherlands argued a good point, it had to be said, though a ruthlessly logical one, and the honour-bound patriotic side of Sweden was crying out for some justice to be done. Already he disliked Jan's cold tongue, his deceptive shifts between cordiality and callousness. _He is a businessman, rather than a nation. A man who cares to protect nothing but his own skin._ To be a nation was a mixed blessing, a burden at times, but there was no denying the mantle of trust and honour that came with it. Netherlands had destroyed that image in just a few carefully placed words.

'If you are asking for an alliance, we cannot-'

' _Sverige_.' Finland's voice cut through the mire, as it so often did. 'The king has summoned him to make an alliance, to finance this war as far as he can, and we have no choice but to forge that alliance,' he said in rapid, whispered Swedish. 'Do you understand?' Candlelight captured and blossomed in the violet-blue orbs of his eyes, and Sweden was overcome by a momentary wave of regret. _I do not appreciate him enough, yet he is at the foundations of all that I do as a nation._

'So you do not trust me,' said Netherlands, displeased at his sudden exclusion. 'Well, I suppose that is fair. Your brother also appeared to be somewhat irked by my arguments, though it was not my intention to have the same effect today.'

'Then-' began Sweden, stumbling over the word through gritted teeth. 'Then we are pleased to accept your alliance, and any terms you offer.' A vicious pleasure lit up Jan's eyes that he did not even bother to conceal.

'The Dutch council expects a payment for every year that this war lasts,' he said, in control again. 'And some form of compensation for five further years after, to make up for the money stolen from us by the Sound tolls. You have been affected similarly, of course, but it was a war between Denmark and Sweden that raised those taxes to start with.' His lips curved upwards, razor-thin. 'It is only fitting that you repay the debt now.' Finland's anger was making itself felt, in that slow, burgeoning manner he had, and Sweden willed them both to remain calm. _This is for our own good. This is so that we might triumph, at last_.

'Of course.'

'Of course. And we have requested a thirty percent share of any profits you might take from Denmark-Norway throughout the duration of this war- no doubt, family rivalries such as yours cannot stay buried for long.' The derisive flick of Jan's eyes suggested that his own family were plagued by no such traumas. Sweden was reminded, in a most unwelcome manner, of the first time he had sworn an oath to this man of snake's stares and venom-dripping words. The scar remained on his hand, darting and silvery like the flash of a bravo's blade. He decided that a simple handshake would suffice upon this occasion. Their palms met in a mingling of cool determination and sweaty frustration. Yet that familiar lightning strike still flashed through him; thrust into the centre of the storm, only this time he was its master and its creator.

 **lotsss of angst coming up soon**


End file.
